
Class ~PT? 5?Q_Q 
Book TVh4- 



6 






LETTERS, 
POEMS, 

AND 

MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS, 

OF THE LATE 

JAMES TYSON. 




FJtyer.SC 



0©T Ji> LY 12, IS 20. 



LETTERS, 

POEMS, 



AND 



MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS. 



OF THE LATE 



JAMES TYSON 



& brief JtfUmotr of fits life. 



LONDON : 

PRINTED BY T. MILLER, NOBLE STREET, 
CHEAPSIDE. 

1822. 



A* 



<t? \> K 






MEMOIR. 



When death deprives us of an endeared friend, 
the course and tenor of whose life has been such 
as to give good promise, that the awful change 
which has taken place has but removed him from 
a world of sorrow and uncertainty to one of 
perfect and unchanging felicity, there is a mourn- 
ful satisfaction, almost amounting to delight, in 
recollecting all that he said, and thought, and 
did; — in re-perusing the volume of his life; — in 
re-treading the path of his pilgrimage. But if 
that friend possessed all the most endearing quali- 
ties of the heart, united with genius, imagination, 
cultivation, and taste, which made him the de- 
light and ornament of the circle in which he 
moved, it cannot but afford additional satisfac- 
tion to those who enjoyed the closest intimacy 
with him, to give to those who loved him a short 
history of his brief life — a general outline of his 
character; and by unveiling some parts of it 

b 



which could not be generally known, but which 
exhibit traits of the most exalted tendency, to 
preserve the recollection of his virtues — extend 
the influence of his example — and build up in 
the hearts of his many friends an altar to his 
memory, whereon continual sacrifice will be of- 
fered. Such is now my occupation. 

James Tyson, the author of the following 
pages, was born in the borough of Southwark, 
on the twenty-ninth day of August, in the year 
1797, of parents whose respectable situation in 
life was favorable for allowing him those advan- 
tages of study and intellectual improvement, 
which tended not only to endear him to the 
circle of his immediate acquaintance, but to 
render him capable of becoming an ornament to 
the country that gave him birth. He was the 
elder of two children, the younger of whom died 
in infancy, and on the death of his father, which 
took place within about a year after the birth of 
James, the care of his education became solely 
entrusted to one of the most affectionate of mo- 
thers, whose pride was to watch over the growth 
of his infant mind, and to engraft in it those 
seeds of virtue and dignity which became in time 
the settled principles of his life. 

When James was in his seventh year, his 
mother married a second husband, a gentleman 



engaged in commercial pursuits, but who also 
possessed a taste for literature and the fine arts, 
and in whom good sense and good feeling com- 
bined to induce a cordial co-operation with his 
mother in affording to James that kind of educa- 
tion, and those facilities for study and improve- 
ment, which his peculiar circumstances pointed 
out as most desirable. He was never sent to any 
school, but when old enough to derive advantage 
from the care of such a man, he was placed under 
the private tuition of the Rev. J. B. Saunders, 
the venerable and respected curate of St. Augus- 
tin, in London, by whom he was instructed in 
classical literature, and who always expressed 
great admiration of his talents, as well as of the 
nobler qualites of his heart. 

His first attempts at composition were made 
at a very early age, and even then, although en- 
twined with the weakness and inexperience of 
the child, shewed the dawnings of a mind des- 
tined not to crawl in the common dust of ordinary 
mortals, but to mount and soar into the higher 
regions of intellectual greatness. Fond of read- 
ing, he felt, at a very early period, anxious to 
emulate the fame of those authors whose works 
he admired, and this feeling, continually fed and 
encouraged by a life of comparative solitude, 
and an entire averseness to the more busy and 



active pursuits of man, became at length almost 
a passion ; he was ambitious of obtaining a name 
in the literary annals of his country — of being 
ranked amongst the great and good of his day, 
and this object never faded from his view. 

Young as he was, he felt too, even at this 
time, a great and growing interest in the civil 
and political affairs of his country, and a patriotic 
jealousy of the encroachments of power : always 
alive to the interesting events which were then 
passing on the great theatre of the world, he read 
the newspapers of the day with avidity, and com- 
mented on their contents with freedom and acute- 
ness. It was at this time he first availed himself 
of their columns, by addressing a letter to the 
editor of the Morning Chronicle, upon the in- 
fringement of a public right, in shutting the gates 
of the Tower at an unreasonably early hour. 
Contrary to his expectations the letter made its 
appearance, and was successful in producing the 
desired effect : the doors were again opened and 
the old regulations restored. This little cir- 
cumstance was a source of double gratification 
to him, for it was the first time that he had 
seen himself in print, a very natural source of 
delight to his ardent and ambitious mind, and it 
also proved to him that he was capable of think- 
ing for himself, a privilege of which he deter- 



mined thenceforth to avail himself. After this 
he frequently inserted letters in the newspapers, 
on subjects of local or temporary interest which 
excited his attention ; and he also employed him- 
self, by way of relaxation from severer studies, 
in writing light essays upon various subjects, and 
critiques upon the several authors, ancient and 
modern, whose works he read: and the applause 
which these productions never failed to obtain 
from those on whose judgments he was accus- 
tomed to rely, gave, of course, great zest and 
stimulus to his rising spirit. He was now about 
fifteen, and in the following year (1813), when not 
quite sixteen, he published a clever little pamph- 
let, entitled, " A brief Historical View of the 
Causes of the Decline of the Commerce of Na- 
tions/' which was favorably noticed by some of 
the reviews of the day : whilst it must be admit- 
ted that the youth and inexperience of the writer 
are often visible, it is no less certain that it 
evinced great industry and research, and well 
deserved the commendation it received. 

About this period it was that his father-in-law 
deemed it advisable to give him occasional em- 
ployment in his counting-house, rather perhaps 
with the view of exciting his mind to the obser- 
vation of the real business of active life, than with 
any decided intention of making a commercial 



pursuit a permanent object. For some months he 
fulfilled the duties of his new situation without 
murmuring, although at no time congenial with 
his feelings ; but at length it became so irksome 
to him that he resolved to give it up : it was im- 
possible that a mind like his, so bounding and 
elastic, so full of aspiration and glorious am- 
bition, should long consent to be shackled down 
to the dull monotony of the counting-house : he 
felt that there were nobler occupations for the 
human mind than could be found in the syste- 
matic routine of the day-book and ledger. Fully 
convinced that the employment in which he was 
engaged was by no means suited to the texture 
of his mind, he resolved to make an earnest ap- 
peal to the judgment of his friends : he accord- 
ingly addressed to his father-in-law the following 
petition, which obtained for him complete eman- 
cipation. 

TO 

HENRY VINT, ESQ. 

THE HUMBLE PETITION AND REPRESENTATION OF 
JAMES TYSON, OF KING STREET, CHEAPSIDE, 

MOST RESPECTFULLY SHEWETH, 

That your petitioner, from the 15th day 
of February, 1813, has been employed in your 
counting-house, and has thereby been prevented 



Vll 



from pursuing those studies for which he has a 
natural inclination ; that your petitioner has not 
consequently made that progress which might 
otherwise reasonably have been expected from 
him: that your petitioner is anxious to repair 
the loss occasioned by such employment, and to 
return to his literary occupations ; and your pe- 
titioner finding it incompatible with the duties of 
his present situation, most humbly intreats to be 
relieved therefrom, for the above-named reason, 
and others which he will presently set forth : that 
your petitioner having no ultimate views upon 
trade, his longer continuance in the counting- 
house, cannot be of any advantage to himself, 
and he further contends that your service will 
sustain no loss by his removal. That your peti- 
tioner has no other object besides that of obtain- 
ing the uninterrupted leisure which is so requi- 
site for the completion of his studies. That your 
petitioner has been for a long time afflicted with 
a grievous and obstinate disorder commonly 
known by the name of the cacoethes scribendi, 
which has hitherto baffled medical aid, and which 
is only to be removed by leisure and exercise : 
farther, that your petitioner has unfortunately 
fallen desperately in love with a young lady of 
great beauty, (at least in his eyes) being no other 
than the Lady Thalia-Melpomene-Bombastina- 



Vlll 

- 

Dramatica, of Covent-Garden, and that unless 
you will be graciously pleased to grant the prayer 
of his petition, he cannot possibly pay her due 
and proper attention. Under these circumstances, 
your petitioner confidently hopes you will take 
his case into your most serious consideration, 
and if his request be complied with, (which he 
does not doubt) that you will be pleased to make 
the necessary arrangements as early as you con- 
veniently can ; because, as he trusts he may say, 
without incurring the imputation of vanity, that 
the Lady Thalia-Melpomene-Bombastina-Drama- 
tica has given him some reason to expect, she 
may be inclined to honour him with her hand 
about the month of September next ensuing, he 
will require the intervening time to draw up the 
marriage settlements, and make sundry other 
necessary preparations for so great an event ; all 
which your petitioner submits with the greatest 
respect. And your petitioner, as in duty bound, 
will ever pray, &c. &c. 

James Tyson. 
Dated this 26th day of 
April, 1815. 

Being thus released from an occupation which 
had materially interfered with his literary pur- 
suits, he returned with renewed ardor and zeal 
to his favorite studies. Poetry and the drama 



were now his chief delight, and to these he de- 
voted himself with increased energy : an early 
and intimate acquaintance with the leading poets 
of his native country, and an especial veneration 
of the immortal Shakspeare, tended to give to his 
mind that fixed and settled habit of feeling and 
reflection which accompanied him in all things, 
and which enabled him to look on all things with 
the eye, and to muse on them with the " breath- 
ing spirit" of a true and genuine poet. In the 
year 1815 he wrote his tragedy of Leoni, which 
was offered to one of the leading theatres but not 
accepted. It was in the early part of this year 
that the writer of this memoir was first introduced 
to him ; and thus was laid the foundation of a 
friendship which gradually acquired strength as 
the character of each became unfolded to the 
other, until at length it issued in an union of 
hearts, more binding than the ties of blood, — in 
a communion of thought and feeling, and an un- 
doubting confidence and reliance, each on each, 
which death alone had power to destroy. As 
their intimacy increased it was natural that the 
serious subjects of religion and a future state 
should sometimes be discussed by them, and it 
was in reference to a conversation of this nature 
that the first letter in the following collection was 
written, wherein he avows his belief not only in 

b 5 



the general doctrines of the gospel, but also in 
the peculiar and delightful, though disputed one, 
of the re-union and mutual recognition of friends 
in a future state. 

In January, 1816, he commenced the very 
useful practice of keeping a regular diary, in a 
small volume (published by Taylor and Hessey, 
of Fleet Street,) for that purpose, under the title 
of the " Student's Journal," which he afterwards 
continued in another similar volume, published 
by the same parties, as the " Private Diary," pre- 
ferring the latter on account of its bearing a more 
modest and unassuming designation : this diary 
he continued regularly until within a few days of 
his decease, making at the close of each year a 
review of the time that had elapsed and the man- 
ner of its occupation, and fearlessly and impar- 
tially recording a verdict in favor or in condem- 
nation of his conduct, as such review demanded. 
By the extracts which will be given from this 
diary, the reader will be enabled to see more of 
the real internal character of the man than could 
be unfolded to him in any other way; and these, 
with the addition of his letters, especially those 
to his friend George, almost render any comment 
upon it unnecessary. In conformity with the 
object which he had proposed to himself of writ- 
ing for the stage, his reading during this year 



was principally confined to the drama and works 
likely to afford him subjects for dramatic com- 
position, of which he was in continual search. 

He was sensible, however, that he was not 
making the best use of his time, and frequently 
notices this with regret: the following extract 
from his diary will afford a specimen both of his 
concise mode of journalizing, and of his attention 
to his conduct and the manner of passing his 
time : — " Friday, 2d Feb. Morning — spent in 
wondering at and reprobating my own idleness. 
Evening — read the New Monthly Magazine for 
this month — once more resolved to be industri- 
ous." 

In August he went with his parents to Paris, 
by way of Brighton and Dieppe, returning by St. 
Omer and Calais to Dover. This journey af- 
forded him much pleasure, and greatly contri- 
buted to the enlargement of his mind and his 
general stock of information; it was the first 
time he had ever been twenty miles from London, 
and every thing was new to him — every change 
of scene was hailed with new wonder and delight. 
It was on his return from this excursion that he 
was introduced to his friend George, to whom so 
many of the following letters are addressed, and 
with whom he soon became united in bonds of 
the strictest intimacy and the most endearing 



friendship — a friendship which knew no inter- 
ruption until dissolved by the resistless hand of 
death. It was within a fortnight after this intro- 
duction that his first letter* to him was written, 
which may be referred to as affording a happy 
illustration of that honesty and candor which 
were peculiar characteristics of his noble mind ; 
he bestows upon the verses which had been 
submitted to his perusal, such commendation 
as he thought they deserved, but at the same 
time freely and frankly points out their de- 
fects ; and in the conclusion of the letter rejects 
some high-wrought expressions of praise, which 
the enthusiastic feelings of his new friend had 
applied to one of his own tragedies, but which 
he felt to be undeserved, and gives him a deli- 
cate hint that flattery was alike unworthy of them 
both. 

I will here extract from his diary, because 
they occur about the same period of time, some 
observations which shew the independence of his 
mind, and how much he was accustomed to think 
for himself and to form his own judgment of men 
and things, as well as the honesty with which he 
records such judgments, even when opposed to 
received opinions, and what he considered as 

* See page 6. 



Xlll 

high authorities : — " September 20 — Read Ben 
Jonson's Every Man in his Humour, which I 
must confess (though with trepidation) I do not 
admire." 

" Sept. 22 — Looked over the Drury Lane 
Monody on the Death of Sheridan, attributed to 
Lord Byron — I am inclined to think correctly — 
at the same time it is certainly inferior to his 
usual style; it is spun out, and flags m many 
places." 

" Sept. 24 — Read the Tempest as perverted 
from Shakspeare, by Dryden, Davenant, and 
Kemble, for which they all deserve to be indicted 
for high treason against the bard : it is, indeed, 
pitiable to read." 

Before giving the retrospect of this year, it 
will be proper to notice the philosophic equa- 
nimity of mind which even at this early period 
he laboured to possess, and the manner in which 
he endeavoured to fortify himself against the 
possible reverses and trials he might have to 
encounter. He was little more than eighteen 
years of age when he completed his tragedy of 
Leoni, an event of no small importance to him 
at that time: this he records in the following 
terms : — " I have this day entirely finished my 
tragedy, and have computed that the time em- 
ployed in writing, revising, and transcribing it, 
has been three months, which I think is tolerably 



rapid. I have now only to hope for its success, 
and I flatter myself I possess sufficient philosophy 
to be able to endure a failure with reasonable 
composure : this remark may be of use when the 
bolt falls. Horace may also be of some service — 

" iEquam memento rebus in arduis 
Servare mentem, non seeds in bonis 
Ab insolenti temperatara 
Laetitia." 

And it was of use — for when, six months 
afterwards, the tragedy was returned from Co- 
vent-Garden Theatre, the circumstance was 
simply noticed thus : — " The proprietors of 
C.G. T. returned Leoni — well, well, no matter" 
And when subsequently his tragedy of Rufinus 
met a similar fate at Drury-Lane, the event is 
recorded in similar terms: — " Rufinus returned 
from D. L. T. Quis timet?" — And so little was 
his serenity disturbed by the circumstance, that 
he went there the same evening to witness Kean's 
performance of Sir Edward Mortimer; and the 
very next morning found him busily employed in 
forming the plot of a new drama. 

I now come to the excellent observations with 
which he closes the year 1816, which fully evince 
how much his own heart and character were the 
objects of his care, and the subjects of his medi- 
tation — but they need no comment from my 



XV 

pen — they speak a language not to be misunder- 
stood. 

THE RETROSPECT, 1816. 

" How useful is retrospection ! how seldom 
performed! and how seldom faithfully ! But con- 
vinced as I am of its utility, let me offer at the 
shrine of truth a faithful account of my thoughts, 
reading, and actions, and may I be enabled to 
peruse it in after years with satisfaction and 
gratitude. 

" To commence with my reading, — I own I 
can in nowise congratulate myself in this par- 
ticular. On reference to the preceding enume- 
ration, I perceive a heterogeneous mass of plays, 
poetry, and novels — all, what is usually termed 
light reading : very few of a graver cast ; a few 
letters, travels, and biographies occasionally. 
Paley's Evidences is the most serious work of 
the whole year; I must regret that it stands 
there alone. The plays are consonant with the 
profession I have adopted, and so far I am ex- 
cused. But there are many works among this 
' light reading' to which I shall always look back 
with pleasure ; for example, Discipline as a no- 
vel, and the third canto of Chiide Harold as a 
poem. The latter is pre-eminent — nay, it is in- 
structive, and calculated to elevate the soul be- 
yond the follies of the world. 



" There certainly is little in this catalogue of 
literature (alluding to a list of upwards of seventy 
works perused during the year) that is solid or 
important, and I have only to conclude this por- 
tion of the retrospect, with a resolution to amend 
the error in the time before me. 

" I come now to thought and action — and 
here I shall venture to assert my belief that an 
improvement has taken place. I feel a higher 
sense of duty to God, and of the dignity of man. 
I am less inclined to dissipation than formerly ; 
I have looked beyond the mists in which the 
worldly-minded enshroud themselves ; I can de- 
spise their extenuations and expose their fallacies. 
Virtue grows more beautiful and vice more hag- 
gard. But I have to guard against the incur- 
sions of pride and vanity. Thus far of virtues 
theoretical ; now for virtues practical • — I am re- 
moved from temptation ; restrained in action ; 
and indecisive in spirit. What then have I to 
boast of? Nothing ! That I am not more vi- 
cious is no merit of mine ; that I am not more 
virtuous is my own fault : the leaf is a 
blank!! 

" This freedom from temptation is a blessing; 
for hence conscience performs its functions freely, 
unimpaired by vice become habitual; not dis- 
tempered by the poison of its breath, or deranged 
by its infatuations ; consequently it is ever ac- 



xvn 

tive : — may it continue thus, for it is sin's worst 
enemy. 

" To descend to minor points, and survey the 
whole, I contemplate the past with satisfaction ; 
my ideas have been enlarged by the journey to 
France ; I have derived real pleasure and benefit 
from my intercourse with society; the ties of 
friendship have been drawn closer ; my prospects 
are cheered by hope, and my ardor is unabated : 
my soul has received new impulses — has been 
revived and illumined; the dark shades that 
hung round it are gradually dispersing; and I 
hope in future to be more virtuous, and more — 
" But man is frail " 

Heaven shower its aid upon me ! 

" J. T." 

About the close of this year he was much an- 
noyed by continual head-aches, which at length 
terminated in an attack of the measles ; this ill- 
ness for some time wore an alarming aspect, and 
left a weakness and tenderness upon his lungs 
which it is probable was never completely re- 
moved. The necessity of secluding himself from 
society, and at the same time giving up every 
thing like study, was a source of no little dis- 
comfort to him; but early in the year 1817 he 
was enabled to resume his usual occupations, 
although with some restriction. His mind was 
now a good deal devoted to the consideration of 



serious subjects, upon which the writer of, the 
present memoir had frequent conversations with 
him: he was especially anxious to obtain fixed 
and settled opinions upon the important doctrine 
of the Trinity, and read several works upon the 
subject with that view ; amongst others, a small 
tract by the Rev. J. Hawkins, and a larger work by 
Dr. Samuel Clarke, both of which are noticed in 
his diary ; the former, in the following words : — 
" Read a small tract on the Trinity, by J. Haw- 
kins, a well written and impartial treatise, which 
tended considerably to arrange my ideas on the 
subject." 

In the autumn of this year he was engaged, 
in connection with his friend Mr. Thomas Serle, 
in forming the plan of a literary society, a slight 
sketch of which will be found in one of his letters 
at page 13; the objects contemplated by the 
founders were the cultivation of the art of public 
speaking, and the publication, periodically, of a 
volume of original essays, critiques, poems, &c. 
to be furnished by the several members. They 
completely succeeded in establishing a very re- 
spectable society, but it was found expedient to 
give up the intended publication and confine their 
object to the discussion of literary, moral, and 
political subjects. In the formation of this so- 
ciety, James displayed that zeal and energy 
which were conspicuous traits in his character; 



XIX 

he was regular and punctual in his attendance at 
the Aveekly meetings, and seldom failed to take 
part in the debate. He was not an eloquent 
debater, but he uniformly evinced such a know- 
ledge of the matter under discussion, exhibited 
such clear and correct views of his subjects, 
and enforced them with so much earnestness, 
that he was always a most welcome speaker, 
and was listened to with marked attention. 
He was, indeed, a universal favorite with the 
members of the society, even with those who had 
least personal intercourse with him. 

Of the works read during this year Madame 
de StaePs Germany afforded him the highest de- 
light; with Blackstone's Commentaries he was 
also much pleased, feeling that he had thence 
derived a considerable insight into the general 
system of our jurisprudence, and an increased 
acquaintance with the laws of his country : it 
must have been an irksome task to any one not 
studying the law as a profession, to read through 
the whole of such a work, but this he accom- 
plished, and often afterwards congratulated him- 
self upon having done so. The obligations he 
was under to both these writers, as well as to 
Dugald Stewart and Dr. Samuel Clarke, are very 
properly noticed in the retrospect of the year, 
which it may be as well here to introduce. 



XX 



THE RETROSPECT, 1817. 



" The close of another year brings me to my 
task again, — a task which must ever impress a 
feeling of humiliation on the mind, while it pre- 
sents us with the striking fact, that ' we have 
done those things which we ought not to have 
done, and left undone those things which we 
ought to have done/ . , 

" I have been referring to the retrospect of 
last year with mingled sensations, though I am 
disposed to believe that another year has not 
passed over without some improvement : — that it 
has not been greater, I reflect with sorrow. 

" In my course of reading an evident improve- 
ment must be acknowledged, and notwithstand- 
ing the majority of books read still consist of 
light works, there are several others of a very 
different description. I am under great obliga- 
tions to Blackstone's Commentaries, Madame da 
Stael's Germany ; to Dugald Stewart especially 
for opening a new field of speculation, which 
I find has been of the most essential service to 
me ; and to Dr. Clarke's work on the Trinity, 
which has been the means, in a great measure, of 
settling my ideas upon this important subject: 
but I speak diffidently and reverently, and I pray 



for the assistance of the Eternal, to correct my 
errors, and lead me in the way of truth. 

" I must own that the promise made last year 
has been very inadequately performed ; that there 
is still much to be done in the improvement of 
my mind and the direction of its studies, and I 
hope to record on the next occasion, that greater 
advances have been made towards this object. 
The establishment of a literary society will, I 
think, be of essential service to me in various 
ways, as I trust experience will make manifest. 

" In the moral and internal retrospect, I am 
afraid much will be found wanting; but I may 
console myself in the belief that I have not retro- 
graded — that the improved tone of mental feeling 
has been supported and promises to continue, — 
and here let me acknowledge how much I owe 
to the friends who surround me, and especially 
to One who has given rise to a better and more 
composed state of mind — who has turned my 
thoughts to the most delightful speculations, and 
who has most materially contributed to render 
this year the happiest of my life ! May the 
charm that has worked this long continue ! may 
it never be broken, till it rises in a new form 
whose duration shall be eternal. 

" I think I have less to do Avith hope than 
heretofore. I cannot but remark that since the 






XX11 

last year nothing has been done towards the ac- 
complishment of the temporal gratifications that 
I have sought to obtain. I am precisely in the 
same situation as then, and with no immediate 
probability of success in any of the projects that 
I had conceived. I do not repine, — I hope I 
never shall while so many actual blessings sur- 
round me ; but it excites reflection while it incul- 
cates patience and the necessity of continued 
exertion. 

" Now let me close my review, with a grate- 
ful recollection of the past, and a reviving hope 
of the future, which, with a reliance upon the 
wisdom and mercy of the Eternal Spirit, I trust 
will never desert me. 

"James Tyson." 

January 3, 1818. 

In the early part of the following year (1818) 
he projected, in connection with one of his friends, 
the joint founder of the Athenseum, a weekly 
publication under the title of the Alchemist, for 
which he wrote a few papers, and one or two of 
them will be found at the end of the present 
volume; in consequence, however, of some similar 
work appearing, before their plan was properly 
digested, the field was considered to be pre- 
occupied, and they were advised to give it up. 



XX111 

Very soon after this he was introduced to the 
proprietor of a weekly paper, the National Re- 
gister, of which he undertook the editorship as 
matter of experiment: this afforded him a regular 
occupation for eight or nine weeks, during which 
time he held it with entire satisfaction to the 
publisher, who much pressed him to continue ; 
but finding that it completely engrossed his time, 
without being at all likely to become a profitable 
employment, he resigned the undertaking, and 
took his leave in the lines which will be found at 
page 170. He was now for a short time com- 
pletely disengaged, but his mind was too ardent 
and active to allow him long to remain so. He 
was anxious to acquire and maintain a reputation 
as a writer which should hand down his name 
with honor to posterity. The ill-success which 
had attended his various efforts at dramatic com- 
position, none of his pieces having been accepted 
at the theatres, seemed to point out that the 
course which he had adopted was not the one 
likely to effect the object he had at heart; and 
his conviction of this is feelingly acknowledged 
at the close of the last retrospect. 

He had always a fondness for historical re- 
search, as the pamphlet published when he was 
only fifteen, and which has been already noticed, 
would sufficiently evince. This taste, which had 



XXIV 

lain dormant for some time, now returned in all 
its pristine vigor, and in gratification of it he 
formed the plan of an historical work which all 
must regret that he did not live to finish, because 
in its progress he has displayed powers which 
would have given him a rank among historians, 
perhaps not inferior to Hume or Gibbon. This was 
intended to be a History of Civil Government from 
its earliest origin to the present day ; dividing it 
into two parts, ancient and modern. In the 
former, tracing it from the natural authority of 
our first parents to heads of families and leaders 
of tribes, until it displayed itself in the formation 
of distinct kingdoms. Then shewing the rise, 
progress, and decay of the various ancient go- 
vernments, and briefly pointing out the causes 
which had produced such mighty changes. In 
the second and most important part, he pro- 
posed to give a clear but succinct account of 
the present form of government, and existing 
institutions, of every state and country now 
known as possessing political existence ; tracing 
them through the various changes and revolu- 
tions they have severally undergone, and closing 
the whole with a recapitulation of the impor- 
tant moral and political reflections which such a 
survey is calculated to awaken. 

Such was the design he had formed to him- 



self, and its execution, so far as he had pro- 
ceeded in it, was worthy of the design. It 
requires but little consideration to perceive that 
great zeal, industry, and research were called 
for ; an extensive knowledge of standard works 
of reference; skill in the selection of his ma- 
terials ; an aptitude to seize the leading and 
prominent features in each case ; and the power 
of condensing and compressing voluminous mat- 
ter into few words, in such a manner as to con- 
vey clear, and, at the same time, correct impres- 
sions to the mind of his reader. It was intended 
that the work should form two volumes, of which 
James had nearly finished the first ; and it will 
be acknowledged by all who may peruse it, that 
he possessed, in no ordinary measure, the quali- 
fications requisite for the task which he had 
undertaken. 

When he had sufficiently matured the plan 
of the work, he applied to Messrs. Taylor and 
Hessey, explained to them his intentions, and 
inquired whether they thought sufficiently well 
of the design to embark in the undertaking : 
their opinion of it was decided and flattering, 
but they desired to see one or two chapters to 
enable them to judge of the powers and capa- 
bilities of James to realize his own conceptions : 
the opportunity was soon afforded them, and 



XXVI 

was immediately followed by a most liberal offer 
on their parts. This arrangement was no sooner 
made than he applied himself to the prosecution 
of the undertaking with all that ardor and energy 
which were characteristic features of his mind. 
A certain portion of each day was regularly ap- 
propriated to the work, and continued to be so, 
with few intermissions, to the close of his life : 
but he still reserved sufficient time for the enjoy- 
ment of the literary novelties of the day, and the 
society of the friends whom he loved. 

A period now approached to which he had 
long looked forward with much anxious expec- 
tation, as putting him in possession of his pro- 
perty, and giving him the full superintendence 
and direction of his own affairs. It was on the 
twenty-ninth day of August that he completed 
his twenty-first year, and he availed himself of 
the opportunity thus afforded him of evincing 
the grateful sentiments he always cherished to- 
wards the instructors of his youth : on that day 
he invited his two guardians and his old pre- 
ceptor to dine with him, and after dinner pre- 
sented to each of them, as well as to his father- 
in-law, a piece of plate, with an appropriate 
Latin inscription, — a mark of grateful attention 
and respect, as unlooked for, as it was delightful 
to the feelings of the parties. The writer having 



XXV11 

been consulted by him throughout, in the choice 
and preparation of the little presents in question, 
can bear testimony to the motives by which he 
was influenced ; there was nothing that partook 
in the least degree of ostentation or of vanity, 
but all was done in the utmost purity and single- 
ness of heart. The expressions of grateful ac- 
knowledgment with which he records the attain- 
ment of his majority, are very pleasing, and well 
deserve insertion here ; they form part of 

THE RETROSPECT OF 1818. 

Once more sitting down to take a slight 
review of the occupations and character of the 
portion of my life just elapsed, I was at first in- 
clined to consider the absence of any remarks, 
critical or otherwise, in this appendix, as a stern 
evidence of unbecoming listlessness and irregu- 
larity; but on reflection and reference, I am dis- 
posed to regard it as rather favorable than not, 
and arguing an occupation of the mind, and a 
direction of its powers to higher objects, which 
prevented attention to minute forms and details. 
I cannot from memory tax myself with idleness, 
and I feel great satisfaction in the consciousness 
that the greater part of the year has been occu- 
pied in acquiring and condensing a mass of 
valuable information, the mere acquisition of 



XXV111 

which is an important gain; but viewed with re- 
ference to ulterior prospects, becomes of higher 
interest as affording the long sought opportunity 
of appearing before the world in a literary cha- 
racter — an object to which the ambition and 
habits of my life are more peculiarly directed. 
I have hitherto been unsuccessful — but I trust 
that failure has diminished neither my perseve- 
rance, my hope, nor the feeling of contented 
thankfulness which I ought ever to cherish. 

Another event has also taken place within 
the year, calculated to call forth a particular 
expression of gratitude to the Supreme Provi- 
dence, — I mean the arrival of that epoch so long 
and anxiously looked for, when I should assume 
the management of my own property and affairs. 
In connection with this point I have nothing to 
regret, or to call up feelings of unpleasantness 
or disappointment; but, on the contrary, the 
situation in which I find myself with respect to 
worldly concerns is such as demands satisfaction, 
grateful acknowledgment, and cheerful content. 
I am, however, not yet in a settled state as 
regards external arrangements, and I record it 
to impress more distinctly on my mind the deep 
necessity that the difficulties should be met and 
overcome. 

I turn now to subjects of a loftier character 



XXIX 

and interest, which ought to occupy the first 
place in my mind, and that they have not main- 
tained their due rank and superiority throughout, 
is matter of humiliation and sorrow — I refer to 
the duties of religion and morality, of which I 
feel that I have not entertained so deep a sense 
as 1 ought. This will more particularly apply to 
the influence and state of practical religion, from 
which my mind has too often wandered unac- 
countably and culpably. The speculative part 
of my religion remains the same, except that my 
conviction of the truth of my general opinions is 
encreased, and assumes a more firm and decided 
character. Of morality I have nothing to say. 
I have no cause for self-gratulation — my trials 
are few — and negative virtues are with me of less 
value than usual; if any change has ensued, it 
will be for the worse, as the avowed state of 
mind with respect to internal religion will un- 
doubtedly involve. 

The relations of the heart remain nearly un- 
changed; I am what I was, and I believe my 
friends are so too; by which I allude only to 
those who are nearest to me, and linked by ties 
of the closest description — ties unseen, un thought 
of by the world, and on the continuance of which 
much of my positive happiness depends. 

" Spes et fortuna favete ! " 



XXX 

My bark has commenced a new voyage — the 
helm is indeed mine, but the winds are at the 
will of heaven. 

James Tyson. 

January 2, 1819. 

His time now flowed on in an easy current of 
undisturbed serenity ; his mind was fully occupied 
in the literary work he had undertaken, which 
he felt to be worthy of his powers, and in the 
prosecution of which he was continually reaping 
new harvests of information, and thus adding to 
his daily pleasures. He was himself satisfied 
with the execution of his task; and the entire 
approbation of his publishers, which from time 
to time they expressed in flattering terms, as the 
work proceeded, left him nothing to desire on 
this head. In fact, his hours seemed now to 
glide along, brightened by continual sunshine, 
and the whole of this year (1819) proved to him 
a course of almost uninterrupted enjoyment. 

Ever since his trip to France in 1816, which 
was hurried and limited in extent, he had been 
desirous of revisiting that country and extending 
his tour to Switzerland and the Netherlands. 
The writer of this little memoir, delighted at the 
opportunity of travelling with such a companion, 
eagerly embraced the proposal of his friend to 



XXXI 



accompany him; and accordingly on the 11th of 
August they set off for Paris, where they passed 
about a fortnight; they then proceeded to 
Geneva, through the Vallais and across the 
Simplon to Domo d'Ossola ; returning by Lau- 
sanne, they visited the celebrated establishments 
of Pestalozzi at Yverdun, and that of Pfellenberg 
at HofTwyll ; availing themselves of their proxi- 
mity when at Bern, they also saw the beautiful 
valley of Lauterbrunn, and the far-famed glaciers 
of Grindelwald. They then directed their course 
by Basle and Strasbourg to the Netherlands, 
which they entered by Givet and Namur, and 
passing over the field of Waterloo to Brussells, 
returned by Antwerp, Ghent, and Ostend, to 
Dover. 

It will easily be seen that this little tour 
embraced a great deal of interesting ground, 
and to the mind of James it afforded a continual 
feast. During the whole time he enjoyed excel- 
lent health and spirits, and his companion fully 
anticipated that it would have been the means of 
firmly establishing his bodily strength which for 
some time previous had been declining. 

Upon their return, however, James devoted 
himself more vigorously than ever to his favorite 
work, with the desire to redeem the time which 
he had given up to relaxation and pleasure ; and 



XXX11 

this close application was productive of very in- 
jurious consequences. It cannot be doubted 
that the great change in his mode of living, — the 
sudden transition from constant exposure and 
exercise, to close confinement to the house, 
would of itself be prejudicial, independent of 
the redoubled action of the mind : the combined 
operation of these causes was perceptible in a 
few weeks, in a renewal of the violent head-aches 
to which he had formerly been subject, and in 
other unpleasant symptoms, for which powerful 
remedies were deemed necessary. Blisters and 
cupping were resorted to with effect, and the 
more alarming appearances were thus removed ; 
but his mind was a good deal impressed by the 
attack, as will be seen by the manner in which 
it is noticed in his diary in the close of 

THE RETROSPECT OE 1819. 

The past year has been principally a time of 
labour and occupation on the literary project 
which engages my attention, though relieved 
by a most delightful excursion to the Alpine 
regions under the most favoring circumstances 
of companionship and comfort. The information 
and delight which my mind has received from 
this tour is not to be forgotten, and will always 
remain as one of my most pleasurable recollec- 



XXX111 

tions. My domestic arrangements have been 
satisfactorily concluded, and the deep and valued 
relations of the heart remain unchanged. My 
mind has, I fear, made less progress than it 
ought in the more serious occupations which 
regard futurity, though I trust I am not less 
sensible than heretofore of the manifold bless- 
ings and privileges which Providence has con- 
ferred upon me. For the time to come I will 
not rely upon human nature farther than to say 
" Spero Meliora." 

The closing year finds me suffering from an 
indisposition which suspends my exertions, and 
the nature of which I do not comprehend, though 
far from regarding its symptoms with indiffer- 
ence. " God be merciful to me a sinner !" 

James Tyson. 

Having gradually recovered from this illness, 
he returned to his former habits of industrious 
occupation, and the " History of Civil Govern- 
ment" was rapidly and satisfactorily advancing, 
under an application imprudently severe. He 
would not, however, estrange himself from his 
friends, even for an object so important to him ; 
and it is more than probable that the evening 
visits he paid to them were detrimental to his 
lungs, which had never been strong. He was 



XXXIV 

very susceptible of cold, and not sufficiently 
careful in guarding against it ; so that attacks of 
cough succeeded each other in quick succession, 
until at length he contracted a hoarseness which 
all the measures resorted to for that purpose 
failed to remove, He had thought it right to 
submit himself to medical treatment, and he now 
confined himself pretty much to the house : by 
these means his cough was much relieved, al- 
though the hoarseness still remained. Thus he 
continued until the month of June, feeling no 
alarm himself, and endeavouring to quiet the 
fears of his friends, by telling them that his phy- 
sician had assured him his lungs were sound, 
and that only warm weather was wanting to 
remove the hoarseness which still troubled him. 
He was now rapidly approaching the termi- 
nation of his career, although none of his friends 
had any idea how rapidly, and very few of them 
indeed perceived any immediate danger. To- 
wards the end of the month, summer burst sud- 
denly upon us with an overwhelming heat ; James 
felt it to be so, and on Wednesday the 2Sth 
quitted London for Harlow, giving to his friends 
the delightful assurance that he should return in 
a few weeks with renewed health and strength. 
Alas ! in one short week, on Wednesday the 5th 
of July, he returned with death written upon his 



forehead, in characters not to be misunderstood; 
and the following Wednesday witnessed the ter- 
mination of his earthly course. 

For some days previous to his decease he was 
quite aware of the extremity of his danger ; in- 
deed, for some weeks he had considered his 
situation as more critical than it was generally be- 
lieved to be, though a tenderness for the feelings 
of his friends prevented him from giving such an 
intimation to any of them : but his mind remain- 
ed calm and composed ; no symptom of dissatis- 
faction — no expression of impatience escaped 
him. Just entering upon life, as he was, with 
bright and cheering prospects, surrounded by 
associates who courted his society, and friends 
who dearly loved him, it cannot be doubted that 
life had for him many charms. Yet he resigned 
himself without a murmur to the will of Him who 
called him into being, confiding in his goodness 
and mercy, — willing to live, but willing also to 
die, as He should appoint. 

The writer of these pages was at a distance 
when James returned from Harlow, but was im- 
mediately sent for; upon arriving in town and 
learning the decided opinion of the physician that 
recovery was hopeless, he deemed it imperative 
on him to make the painful communication to his 
friend, and for this purpose sought an early op- 



XXXV 1 

portunity of leading his thoughts to the con- 
templation of the subject. James instantly per- 
ceived the intention, and said with emotion, " I 
know what you wish, but it is already done : I 
may say that I have been favored with a peculiar 
interposition of Providence to that effect. An 
old friend of our family called upon me a short 
time since, and the impossibility of restraining 
her feelings, which overcame her on seeing my 
altered appearance, gave me the first intimation 
of danger : for a moment it was almost too much 
for me, but I soon fell into silent prayer, and in 
a quarter of an hour all dread subsided ; I be- 
came entirely composed and resigned — I felt, in 
fact, that my prayer was answered." 

In this placid, submissive frame of mind, he 
continued to the end, retaining all his wonted 
firmness and self-possession. On the day be- 
fore his decease, he observed, " There is evi- 
dently a terrible conflict carrying on between the 
doctor and the disease ; we shall soon see which 
will prevail ; we must do what we can, and wait 
the issue :" and more than once he told his 
friends it was " all working for the great end." 
On the following morning, finding himself weaker, 
he said> " I feel this disease is mastering me — it 
is getting the upper hand — I am not so able to 
struggle with it as I was." Thus aware of his 



XXXV11 

approaching dissolution, his anxieties were much 
more for his friends than for himself; he dreaded 
the effect of the impending blow upon his poor 
mother, and expressed himself very much re- 
lieved, after an interesting conversation with her, 
at finding her mind more prepared for the event 
than he had anticipated. At six o'clock in the 
evening of Wednesday the 12th of July, awaking 
from a short but tranquil slumber, he breathed 
a single sigh and instantly expired. 

Thus, at the early age of twenty-three, was 
society deprived of an active and useful member ; 
his associates, of a delightful and endeared com- 
panion; his friends, of an invaluable treasure. 
The cheerfulness of his disposition, added to the 
excellence of his understanding, and his acquired 
knowledge, made him a welcome visitor where- 
ever he went ; and the undeviating rectitude of 
his principles caused his friendship to be sought 
by all with whom he was connected. 

To no one could the beautiful lines of Mont- 
gomery be mor,e applicable than to James Tyson. 

" Sweet in his undissembling mien 
Were genius, virtue, candor, seen, 

The lips that loved the truth ; 
The single eye whose glance sublime 
Looked to eternity through time, 
The soul whose hopes were wont to climb 

Above the joys of youth." 



XXXV1U 

In his general demeanor to strangers, he was 
affable and easy of access; always pleased in 
extending the circle of his acquaintance, and 
always willing to communicate information to 
those with whom he had intercourse: his con- 
versation, easy and unembarrassed, was a con- 
tinual source of interest, but never bordered on 
pedantry or conceit. He had an utter aversion 
to every thing which indicated a mean and selfish 
spirit, and if ever he expressed himself with 
harshness, it was when he met with actions 
betraying that such was the governing disposi- 
tion. 

Endowed with a quick perception of the 
merits of whatever excited his attention, his 
judgments were usually prompt and decisive, 
perhaps almost what some would call hasty, and 
yet it seldom happened that he had cause to 
alter them. Thus highly gifted he became the 
confidant and counsellor of old and young ; not 
merely of those who shared with him the fresh- 
ness and buoyancy of youth, but of many whose 
years doubled and trebled his own, and who 
were accustomed to repose with confidence on 
the soundness of his judgment, and the high 
principle of right by which his advice was uni- 
formly regulated. 

But his penetration, his decision, his sound- 



XXXIX 

ness of judgment, his energy, his gaiety of spirit, 
his delightful conversational powers, — all, in fact, 
all the bright and dazzling properties of his mind 
were eclipsed by the nobler and more endearing 
qualities of his heart: — how truly noble, how 
truly endearing, none can know but the few 
chosen friends whose happiness it was to share 
it. The character of a real friend is always a 
thousand times more capable of being felt than 
described; and it is impossible to relate in detail 
all his little nameless acts of kindness and of 
love, how warmly soever they may continue to 
vibrate round the heart : they are not performed 
for exhibition, but to bind and cement more 
closely together kindred hearts, and to illustrate 
the truth that 

" Man is dear to man." 

It was in this chosen circle, in which he knew 
no restraint, that the glories of his character un- 
veiled themselves ; — here the refined and culti- 
vated soul spread its rich and vivifying rays — here 
the warm heart delighted to dispense its cheer- 
ing and exhilarating beams — here the endearing 
spirit of unbounded confidence and unsuspect- 
ing reliance twined those bonds of amity which 
could be loosened or dissolved only by death 
and the grave. 



xli 

But it is time to bring this imperfect narrative 
to a conclusion, and the words of a contemporary 
poet, who has been already quoted, may here be 
faithfully and appropriately applied: — 

" Many, my friend, have mourned for thee, 

And many yet shall mourn 

Long as thy memory shall be 

In sweet remembrance borae, 
By those who loved thee here, and love 
Thy spirit still in realms above." 

His remains were interred in the family vault, 
at the Chapel of Ease, Lark-Hall Lane, Clap- 
ham. 



LETTERS. 



LETTERS, 



TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 



Sunday, August 20, 1815. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I have been meditating on the subject 
you proposed for my consideration, and have 
read the pamphlet you lent me ; the result of all 
which is, that I am satisfied " we shall be known 
to each other in a future state." 

Respecting the pamphlet, I have to observe, 
that it certainly throws considerable light upon 
the question, though in many instances it appears 
to me overstrained, and to quote passages in 
support of its arguments, which refer only to our 



meeting Christ in the next world. My present 
purpose, however, is not criticism, but explana- 
tion. The scriptures clearly express that the 
righteous will have an inheritance among the 
sanctified (Acts, xx. 32.), which you will find in 
many places, (see also Acts, xxvi. 18.) : this fact 
being admitted, for what purpose should we be 
congregated together, were mutual recognition 
denied ? We are taught that the future life of the 
sanctified will be spent in praising God, in joy, 
and admiration : — how would this joy be height- 
ened, by the recollection of the events of our 
past life ! how intense the delight of holding 
communion with friends that were once dear, 
and of imparting our sentiments of wonder and 
adoration, at the disclosure of the infinite good- 
ness of the Creator. And not only with our own 
immediate friends should we confer, but we 
should stand in the presence of Moses and the 
Patriarchs, — of Elijah and the Prophets, — of 
Christ and his Apostles : this to my mind would 
be transport illimitable, worthy of the beneficence 
of the Almighty. Indeed, mutual recognition in 
a future state appears so in unison with our 
ideas of the divine benevolence, that my reliance 
upon the promises of scripture will not suffer me 
to doubt it : but our adversaries must be at- 



tended to. It is urged against us, that the know- 
ledge of some of our former connexions not being 
in happiness, would introduce grief into the 
regions of bliss, which cannot be. My answer 
is this — as sorrow is banished from heaven, the 
situation of our fallen relatives could not give us 
pain, were we acquainted with it ; but I think it 
highly probable that the good will be so com- 
pletely separated from the bad, that they will not 
witness their punishment: in either case, there 
cannot be a doubt of the righteous being ex- 
empted from mental pain. This objection then 
must vanish, and I am not acquainted with any 
other that merits consideration. You have now 
a brief summary of my conceptions on the sub- 
ject; for what other elucidations they may seem 
to require, I refer you to the before-mentioned 
pamphlet, which conveys a very tolerable idea of 
the question. I am anxious to have your obser- 
vations, which may be perfectly satisfactory, 
without being extended to thirty-three pages. 
There are several other points of controversy 
which I think you and I might enlarge upon, 
and ambition tells me that if we agree, we might 
possibly extend the sphere of our reflections, by 
communicating them to the world in some shape 
or other. Particulars must be left for a personal 



interview, and until I can enjoy that, believe 
me to be, &c. &c. 

J. T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

September 28, 1816. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I crave pardon for not returning an 
answer by the bearer, as you requested, but I 
was willing to say a few words respecting the 
inclosures at the same time. I regret that I 
have not the " Emerald Isle," or should have 
been most happy to have lent it you. I believe 
I recommended you to read it, and I now repeat 
my recommendation, as I am confident you will 
be delighted with it : when you have perused it, 
pray give me your opinion. 

I have read " Suicide," with attention; that 
the lines are interesting, is to say the least. The 
horrible state of mind in which they were penned 
is perceptible throughout, and imparts a grandeur 
to the production, which per se it would not have 
possessed: I look upon it as a curious and 



valuable relic. — Insanity is strongly impressed 
on the face of it ; and it may serve as a model 
for dramatic pourtrayers of madness : this is 
nature, and as such it is worthy of deep atten- 
tion. I know not whether you have a copy, but 
at all events I shall use the freedom of retaining 
it a few days. 

I have paid no less attention to your " Scraps," 
as you call them, and cannot but smile at your 
desiring me to pity you. I do not know a worse 
mortification that, an author can receive than to 
be pitied ; however, it is not my intention either 
to lash or to pity, but with that candour which is 
the true torch-bearer to improvement, I shall tell 
you, that your Lines would have been better, 
had you bestowed more time upon them; that 
they bear evident marks of haste ; that they con- 
tain some excellent ideas, and that they only 
want a little revision to make them very good. 
— I have not flattered you, and I know I shall 
please you in not having done so. I shall retain 
these verses, sans ceremonie : pray, has this bant- 
ling any brothers and sisters? I should like to 
see them Remember that ! 

I have read the Monody, which I must think 
a very unequal performance, though in all pro- 
bability Byron's. 



Macready, the new Orestes, I have not seen, 
nor do I at present intend to see him in that cha- 
racter — I do not like the play. 

For what you say of my Tragedy — thanks ! 
but there is a spice of flattery which I hope will 
be omitted in future. Yours, &c. 

J. T. 



TO MRS. VOWLEJt, 

WITH A PACK OF CARDS. 

A pack of Cards, my dear madam, 
may seem a very odd present; and an old one, 
still more so; but you will remember that it 
comes from an odd creature. I know that, with 
you, cards have contributed to while away many 
a weary hour; and, besides, I am disposed to 
think we may derive much more from them than 
mere amusement, like the philosopher in Shaks- 
peare, who 

" Found tongues in trees, books in the running brook , 
" Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 

Indeed, the world appears to me to have a 



9 

strong resemblance to a pack of cards ; it has 
its high and its low — its honours and its court- 
cards — its kings, queens, and knaves, in abundance ; 
and often the individual who is insignificant in 
one game, in another becomes of vast importance. 
Prudence teaches us to play our cards wellin life ; 
and to turn up a trump-card in a favourite suit, is 
the object of all our ambition. 

Youth plays at Speculation — Age, at Patience ; 
— the Statesman exerts his skill in the intricacies 
of Whist— the Soldier employs his strength in 
beating the Knave out-of-doors — and the Man of 
Business amuses himself with the barterings and 
calculations of Commerce. Again, the Diamond 
may represent wealth, rank, and power, — the 
Heart, love, friendship, virtue, and all that is 
amiable, — the Club, war, strife, hate, and all that 
is detestable, — and the Spade, the humble em- 
ployment of the lowly rustic. — How often do we 
turn up a Club, where we expected a Heart or a 
Diamond ! How often do the contentions of the 
Diamond and the Heart call for the interference 
of the Club, who generally comes to the assist- 
ance of the former, and drives the poor Heart out 
of the field ; while the peasant, with his single 
Spade, is probably happier than all the rest. I 

B 5 



10 

could compare a Bachelor to an Ace, and Mar- 
riage to a Deuce, sometimes of Hearts, but not 
unfrequently of Clubs: and to take it in another 
point of view, how generally do we see the 
Diamond and the Club pairing off together, leav- 
ing the Heart and the Spade to get through life 
as well as they can. 

You, I know, have too independent a mind to 
covet dealings with court-cards generally ; but I 
may, and do sincerely, congratulate you on the 
possession of four honours, which I fervently 
hope you may long enjoy, with all the compla- 
cency such a prize is calculated to afford. In 
this sentiment, you may be assured there is no 
danger of a Revoke; and although it is not my 
place to lead off with it, I am most happy to 
follow suit. 

Believe me to be, 

my dear madam, &c. &c. 

J.T. 

December 12, 1817. 



11 



TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 

OF PAISLEY. 

London, May 2, 1818. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

When I look at the date of your letter, 
I am quite ashamed to think of the length of 
time that has elapsed before I sit down to reply ; 
and I hasten to remove the impression which 
must have taken place in your mind, that I was 
not anxious to continue the correspondence. I 
can assure you, however, that the contrary is the 
case; and I feel flattered that you should devote 
any part of your time to me, occupied as I un- 
derstand it to be with many important pursuits. 
If there is any one circumstance that would ren- 
der it more agreeable than another, it is the free 
and unreserved mauner in which you have com- 
menced the correspondence. I hate punctilio; 
and, in literary pursuits, pride and ceremony are 
such unwelcome intruders, that a man who 
permits their sway must be considered as a very 
doubtful subject of science, in thus unconstitu- 
tionally paying homage to foreign potentates. 



12 

To have done with preliminaries, I may as 
well inform you of the real cause of my silence : 
I was expecting to surprise you with a piece of 
intelligence, that I doubt not would have had 
that effect. I was in treaty for the management 
of a Weekly Newspaper, and I delayed writing 
to you, till I could communicate something defi- 
nitive on the subject. After six weeks of trial 
and uncertainty, I found the person I had to 
deal with was truly an impracticable man ; so I 
hastily disolved the connexion, and am once 
more enjoying the otium cum dignitate. This 
I do not regret, as it must be something highly 
advantageous which can overbalance the benefits 
to be derived from leisure, in my situation. I am 
now in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
British Museum, to the library of which I have 
constant access : I need not enlarge upon the 
value of this privilege, as you will comprehend 
it in a moment. Its collection of books and 
MSS. is unrivalled, except by the Bodleian at 
Oxford, and the Royal Library at Paris ; inde- 
pendent of its invaluable and increasing treasures 
of antiquities and natural history. I shall, of 
course, make the best use of my time with these 
advantages, including those of two other similar 
institutions (the London and the Russell), with 



13 

which I am connected. All of these I shall 
have great pleasure in introducing to your ac- 
quaintance, when you next visit London, as also 
the society of which I am a member, if it should 
be sitting at the time. I fear, however, that the 
period of your usual visit to the south, is during 
our recess, as we shall adjourn for the summer 
months till October or November, I do not at 
present know which. If I rightly understand the 
purport of your remarks on this subject, I think 
you have somewhat misconceived our views, 
imagining them to be more extended than they 
really are. Our discussions are confined to 
moral, literary, and political topics; the pro- 
fessed objects of the institution being the culti- 
vation and diffusion of useful knowledge, and 
the art of extemporaneous public speaking. Our 
number is about thirty : we meet every Tuesday 
evening, and sit for about two hours and a half. 
Our president is a young man of extraordinary 
talent — he is in the profession of the Law, and 
has occasionally poured forth bursts of eloquence 
which would do honor to any man or any as- 
sembly. The rest of us being unpractised and 
ungifted speakers, it is scarcely necessary to say 
he throws us all into shade : he is of course ex- 
tremely popular, and if it be previously known 



14 

that he will speak on any given evening, we are 
sure of a crowded house. We meet in an ex- 
cellent room in Chancery-Lane, in all possible 
form and dignity. 

I understand that your pursuits, and the 
societies to which you belong, are chiefly of a 
scientific nature — a branch of knowledge which 
we do not interfere with, and to which I have 
very small pretension. Poetry and her sister 
arts have principally occupied my attention ; and 
although Philosophy and her train have had 
their share of the inconstant sunshine of my 
favor, they may truly be said to 

" Come like shadows so depart." 

I cannot of course be so ignorant, or so indif- 
ferent, as not to feel interest in the march of 
Science ; and I should be happy to have some 
account of your Paisley Institutions ; and if any 
of them should happen to come within my reach, 
I will not say but I may become a candidate for 
the honors of the North, provided that foreign 
communications are admissible ; and if there be 
any information which it may be in my power 
to communicate to you individually, I entreat 
that you will require my services without any 
scruple whatever. It is thus, and thus only, 



15 

that knowledge is rendered generally useful ; 
and a literary miser is worse than he who hordes 
up the world's base pelf — that must be left be- 
hind, the other may be buried with the misan- 
thrope who imprisoned it. 

Do you know any thing of the present state 
of the Philosophical Society at Manchester ? 

I sincerely hope my long silence will not be- 
come a precedent on either side, and that you 
will soon convince me of the contrary by your 
example. Believe me, &c. &c. 

J. T. 



TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 

OF PAISLEY. 

London, August 25, 1818, 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I FEEL myself much indebted for the 
kind and friendly interest you have taken in my 
literary affairs, and hasten to assure you that I am 
quite convinced you would render me all the ser- 
vice in your power : however, the only favor I 



16 

have to ask at present for my bantling, is a strict 
silence respecting its nature and object, which I 
will willingly give you an idea of. It is intended 
to be a compendium of the constitutions and 
forms of government now existing in the world, 
embracing a view of all the various forms that 
have subsisted among the celebrated nations of 
former times, so as to give a general and suc- 
cinct idea of all the governments of the principal 
countries that have figured in the history of the 
world. This will of course present in a small 
compass, (which is a principal point) an immense 
mass of information that must at present be 
sought in hundreds of volumes, or only glanced 
at in incorrect books of geography, servilely 
compiled from very spurious sources. 

If I continue to please my masters (the pub- 
lishers) to the end, I shall be very comfortably 
situated with respect to the pecuniary part of the 
affair, though I am not the less sensible of your 
kind offer of assistance in that way. In this 
there is a great deal of steady labour ; and the 
principal difficulty lies in the compression of the 
materials, as it is my object not only to view the 
several institutions when completed, but to trace 
their progress, and to present a view of all the 
changes that have occurred in the constitutional 



17 

history of the countries treated of. There is, 
nevertheless, a great deal of pleasure attaching to 
these researches, and there is a great fund of 
knowledge incidentally obtained, which I should 
scarcely ever have acquired, if I had set about 
making a study of history for the mere purposes 
of internal improvement. There is much advan- 
tage in this : we seem to gain information insen- 
sibly — we are relieved from the tediousness of 
plodding through ponderous volumes, only that 
we may get to the end of them; and like the 
botanist who ranges the hills for a particular 
flower, and returns with an unexpected garland 
of novelties, we are continually gathering new 
sweets as we proceed, until labour becomes 
recreation, and increasing ardour accompanies 
the task. 

I shall not regret your protracted absence, if 
it will enable you, when you do come, to enjoy a 
few more of the pleasures which I promise my- 
self to share with you, if the period of your 
arrival be propitious. The British Museum will 
be open again to the public on the first of 
October, though I think I could introduce you 
to the Gallery of Sculpture before : the reading- 
room continues open as usual for the benefit of us 
authors, and I can enjoy a stroll through the 



18 

building without the interruption of idle and 
ignorant wonder-catchers. 

In our course of studies there is certainly 
some difference — yours are decidedly physical, 
and mine rather metaphysical — yours is the 
world of matter, mine the world of mind ; yet 
between these there is no antipathy, but a con- 
nexion the most intimate, if the links are closely 
examined. You are employed in investigating 
the mysteries of nature; exploring the dark 
recesses of the mine, and from the hidden stores 
of the fruitful earth, calling forth the mighty 
agents that administer to the necessities, com- 
forts, and luxuries of man ; and in these there is 
a secret charm distinct from all low considera- 
tions, an admiration of nature in her smallest 
atom— a light within, which, like the sacred fire 
of the Persians, is never extinguished, but glows 
and brightens, as the enthusiasm that feeds it 
grows stronger by its own exertions. On the 
contrary, I am occupied in tracing the operations 
of the human mind in all ages, situations, and 
forms — now, in the soul of the legislator, ex- 
hibited in the revolutions of empires — breathing 
in the aspirations of poetry — and in the contem- 
plations of the philosopher, who sits alone within 
his silent cell, and meditates on things beyond 



19 

the reach of time — the soul, that knows all 
things but itself, and the one great mind that 
sways the universe. And here is a point where 
we may unite : by opposite directions we have 
arrived at the same spot; and, like the sovereigns 
of two mighty empires, we have discovered a 
space of neutral ground whereon to meet, and 
pay a common homage to the Lord Supreme. 
I was once, like you, an experimental philosopher ; 
but it was a childish love, and the characters it 
engraved are nearly obliterated by time : in 
plainer language, this study gave way to others 
more attractive, but to the mania, while it lasted, 
I owe a good deal ; and I am persuaded that 
there is nothing more beneficial for a young 
mind than those ardent fits of studying a par- 
ticular science, which, though they afterwards 
subside, always leave a sufficient impression for 
general knowledge. 

I feel much obliged by all your enquiries, 
and offers respecting your scientific institutions : 
I shall certainly write for them ; and if I should 
be so fortunate as to obtain the honor of a con- 
nexion with any of them, I shall be at all times 
happy to promote their interests as far as lies in 
my power, by communicating any information, 
or transacting any business for them in London,, 



20 

Ai present I am quite at a loss for a subject; if 
an\ thing should occur to you as likely to be in 
my way and theirs, send it up, and I will see if 
I can make any thing of it. Do not forget the 
Edinburgh Royal Society in your next, if you 
should have met with any information respecting 
it. I hope it will not be long before I hear from 
you, as the delay on my side has been quite 
accidental. Believe me, &c. &c. 

J. T. 



TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 

OF PAISLEY. 

London, September 14, 1818. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I seize the first leisure moment to 
return you sincere thanks for your last kind and 
long letter, though you will perceive, by the size 
of my paper, that I have not grace enough to 
follow your example. But you shall have my 
excuses, for I would not have you suppose me 
guilty of indifference, or of the affectation of 



21 

business, which men of literary habits too often 
assume. My time this morning is limited by an 
expected visit from my publisher, whom I am 
about to take with some friends to the Museum, 
by special favor, during the recess. I am also 
anxious you should have this early, as you de- 
sired; and as I hope to see you very shortly, there 
is less occasion for prolixity : so much for rea- 
sons for a short letter, which, with a few such 
aids as excuse-making, &c. will be metamor- 
phosed into a long one by mere dint of manual 
gossiping. 

Of your friendly regard for my pursuits I am 
fully sensible, and trust that the work now in 
progress will not prove unworthy of your atten- 
tion. I could not but smile as you recalled the 
period of our first acquaintance, and the train of 
ideas thereto attaching, when, as you observe, 
business appeared to be our only object : this 
might be so in a great degree, for I believe, at 
that time, I had not long entered into office, and 
in all probability was sufficiently occupied by 
my own importance. At the same time I assure 
you, that I look back upon that period with con- 
siderable satisfaction, as it gave me a great 
portion of information and experience in the 
world's affairs, which I could not otherwise have 



attained. At length, however, the old impulses 
returned, and Mr. V. was kind enough to give 
me my emancipation. — I returned to the Muses, 
and with them shall most probably remain. 

Upon your observations on your own situa- 
tion you must allow me to make a few comments. 
I can fully sympathise with your regrets for the 
omissions of the past, but I do not see any par- 
ticular reason to lament the circumstances in 
which you are now placed : that you are chained 
to a business is true, but your mind is unfettered ; 
it allows you to recreate yourself with those pur- 
suits most congenial to you : we cannot all walk 
in one and the same path, and it is very probable 
that your sphere of utility and pleasure is quite 
as large now, as it would have been if your 
amusement had been your occupation. You look 
at the bright side of a literary life — did you ever 
view the other ? if not, I will lift up a corner of 
the curtain for you when you come to town. As 
regards your leisure hours, you live to study: but 
if you were obliged to study to live, how dif- 
ferent would be your feelings ! With all due re- 
spect for the ardour of your attachment to the 
lady Science, it appears to me to be of very 
little consequence whether you can keep up with 
her march or not : you have the same pleasure 



23 

m your pursuit, — in the society of learned men 
when they come in your way — and in the con- 
templation of the miracles of the times ; besides 
these, there is a whole class of feelings allied to, 
but not dependent on, literature ; of social plea- 
sures, quiet joys remote from noisy fame, but 
sweetest in their quietude, which will increase 
the zest of the rational enjoyment of literature, 
while they temper the passion for climbing its 
summits — the intensity of ambition which would 
enthrone itself on Alps, and from its cloudy 
eminence control a subject world. 

The love of science may become a passion 
as well as any thing else, and should be bridled. 
Shakspeare says — the lunatic, the lover, and the 
poet, are of imagination all compact; and the 
word poet may be safely construed in its widest 
signification. I have little respect for the cha- 
racter that is merely literary, by which I mean a 
man whose every feeling is absorbed in the 
whirlpool of learning and learning's ambition — 
such an one is much less enviable than he appears 
to be, he toils as much as if he were in a coal- 
mine; the light of the sun cheers him not; he 
lives for a posterity who know him not, care not 
for him, and he dies without a friend. The 
mathematician (Sharp) who shut himself up for 



24 

years to calculate the quadrature of the circle, 
was only fit for a mad-house, and if he had never 
lived at all it would have signified very little. 
Depend upon it, the intellectual qualities of a 
man will render him very little service, if unac- 
companied by the moral and social feelings of 
human nature. But it is time I should return, 
or I shall not be able to send you this to day. I 
am obliged by your offer of a trip with you to 
Paris ; but it will not be in my power to accom- 
pany you, for a variety of reasons, which I can 
mention when I see you. — If you can spare the 
time for the excursion, I am sure it will delight 
you : and as you say you can procure such ex- 
cellent introductions, I should recommend you, 
by all means, to take advantage of your proxi- 
mity when in the south. 

I am much indebted to you for the list of 
subjects you have given me; they have afforded 
me some useful hints : I had thought of one be- 
fore I received yours, but I shall certainly avail 
myself of the advantage, and I shall always feel 
obliged by your communicating any similar 
ideas that may strike you, as it might possibly 
be the means of eliciting a good deal of useful 
information, as well for myself as others. I hope 
to be able to give you something to take back 



25 

with you, as I am now making a pause in my 
work, for such purposes. We will talk over the 
affair of the Royal Society when we meet; I 
think I can apply one of your subjects to that 
object. I hope it will not now be long before I 
see you, and you will believe that I shall be 
most happy in spending as many hours as you 
please, in any way that shall be agreeable to 
you. — " My hour is almost come," — so I will, 
without farther apology or parade, subscribe 
myself, &c. &c. 

J.T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

Bernard Street, October 31, 1818. 
DEAR GEORGE, 

I ought to have answered your letter 
long ere this, but have been in hopes of seeing 
you in the city : I called on Thursday, but you 
were wandering. 

I am sincerely obliged by your offer of 
drawing the case for counsel, and if you can do 
that with perfect convenience to yourself, Ihave 

c 



26 

every confidence in your capabilities ; but I 
wish you distinctly to understand, that if it will 
occasion you the slightest inconvenience or pre- 
judice in any shape, I shall expect you to de- 
clare it. 

You k now I love solicitors as a rat does a 
trap, and as I have two crazy old tenements, 
with a Lawyer in one, and a Surveyor in the 
other, I think I owe the devil no fees : it is well 
I have no more, or I should die of repletion, 
unless previously quieted by phlebotomy. But 
to business — do you want papers, parchments, 
or instructions ? let me know. Will you survey 

the premises ? — Call on Mrs. H , but do not 

charge me for the length of her harangues, or if 
you insist upon that as absolutely requiring re- 
muneration, just look out a snug lodging within 
the Rules, as you go home, that I may be pre- 
pared for the worst. Pr'ythee be laconic, since 
it appears the greater the bulk, the harder the 
squeeze. Oh ! I groan already. Pres- 
ton's the man, — perhaps he would compromise 
the fee for an Ode on Conveyancing. If you 
are likely to be visible on Monday about four 
P. M. I will, if possible, venture my neck into 

Pandemonium ; though if I meet — , or ~, 

or , I shall be strongly tempted to cry, 



Exorcuo tel with all and sundry the epithets, 
phrases, words, expressions, substantives, and 
adjectives, thereunto belonging, as recited in the 
original conveyance from Abel Sampson, clerk, 
to Margaret Merrilies, widow. 

I remain 
your despairing friend, 

J. T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

Bernard Street, Dec. 14, 1818. 
DEAR GEORGE, 

Mrs. H yesterday undertook a 

pilgrimage to Bernard Street in great tribulation 
of spirit, to make inquiries respecting your ope- 
rations; when, with my accustomed compas- 
sion, I promised to write to you to obtain 
some information, and, if possible, allay her 
unceasing doubts and fears. Do you think 
you can manage to finish the case before 
Christmas, that I may be enabled to give these 

people some answer ? I think if Mrs. H 

should by any accident quit this world before 



28 

the affair is settled, she would haunt me ever 
afterwards, and her constant company is not 
particularly desirable. 

I am not less " twitted" by another lady (to 
use a term of her own) about that song of yours ; 
have you no tidings of it? I wish, if not, that 
you would patch up your original MS. which I 
dare say you can easily do, if you set about it. 
I hope you mean to say something on Tuesday; 
— there is fine opportunity for a flourish about 
Napoleon, whom I am sorry T cannot assist on 
the occasion, having a retainer on the other side. 
The return from Elba is one of the finest things 
in history: I am reading Hobhouse's Letters 
from Paris during that period ; in which there is 
a detailed account of the whole affair : this, and 
tiie battles of Leipsic and Waterloo, Bona- 
parte's crossing the Alps, and the invasion of 
Russia, might animate dullness itself. — I should 
think they would blow you up. You can find 
by way of aid, fury in Phillips, — philosophy in 
De Stael, — and magnificent praise and abuse in 
Byron, — all applied to the same individual : 

Quid vult magis ? 

Come as soon as you can on Tuesday, that 
I may catch a glimpse of you, and give you an 



29 
opportunity of putting in your answer to the 
foregoing bills. 

Believe me, &c. &c. 

J.T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

Bernard Street, January 9, 1819. 
MY DEAR GEORGE, 

Notwithstanding my vaunted skill 
in tracing the origin of dreams, I confess myself 
wholly at a loss to account for your hanging- 
vision ; though I should not have expected you 
to go out of the direct line of your profession for 
the association of causes and effects, merits and 
rewards. As for opening a question at the 
Athenaeum, that is at the worst only the minor 
punishment of the pillory, of which, I should 
think, the gentlemen of your fraternity must be 
in perpetual anticipation. 

In the present instance, it is very likely to 
turn out one of those cases where the exhibitor 
is greeted by the cheers of his friends, and 



30 

descends with increased honor and reputation. 
Be this as it may, I will certainly not refuse my 
aid to a friend in distress, though his sickness be 
only brain-begotten upon Modesty, aud baptized 
Megrim. On the other side are a few hints 
hastily got up in a few moments, the rest is 
a vous — for I too am in haste. 

Believe me, &c. &c. 

J. T. 

History — what? — the pursuit of all ages; dis- 
tinguished rank ever acknowledged those studies 
the most important which contain the highest and 
most useful truths. History, the storehouse of 
these, the guide of all our judgments, as useful 
as memoiy. The inculcation of morality by ex- 
ample; the knowledge of past events our princi- 
pal beacon in religion, morals, and science; 
therefore, the study of them the most important, 
and in all classes of society. To the statesman, 
indispensible — no government could be carried 
on without it ; a man ignorant of history cannot 
be a good minister. Descant on the revolutions 
of empires : good kings, Cyrus, Alfred, &c. &c. 
Great kings, Alexander, Charles V. Greece, 
Home. To the man of science equally neces- 
sary, the ground-work of his knowledge in a 



31 

great degree; the proofs of his reasonings, a 
variety of speculations, in which a deficiency of 
historical knowledge would be fatal. Genuine 
history — evidence of the most important truths, 
as of Christianity — Paley — utility of concurrent 
and undoubted testimony on all subjects — to man 
generally ; pre-eminent as conveying the greatest 
mass of the most useful knowledge — from its com- 
prehensiveness — proved from individual works, 
as Gibbon, Montesquieu, et alia. 

On the other hand, Poetry is merely the 
record of internal impressions ; these of inferior 
importance, fleeting, imaginative, liable to per- 
version ; seducing the mind from graver studies, 
without compensating by any certain benefit; 
nursing the passions — unfitting the mind for the 
necessary occupations of life. What instruction 
is conveyed? very limited — unsupported — theo- 
retical — and the slave of the prejudices of any 
writer. Not so History — facts cannot be alto- 
gether perverted.— Recapitulation. 

The above hints you will find capable of 
amplification and illustration, which you can 

easily supply; consult N , who will support 

you : I shall certainly oppose these arguments. 



32 



TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 

OF PAISLEY. 

London, May 1, 1819. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

You will herewith receive the long 
promised essay for the Paisley Philosophical 
Institution, with a letter to yourself as secretary. 
I have chosen one of the subjects you hinted at, 
(The Origin and Establishment of the Art of 
Printing), and though but a crude and sketchy 
piece of business, I trust it will be admissible. 
I have also sent, according to promise, one of the 
pamphlets, published by me some years ago, but 
I request that it may never go out of your 
custody, unless accompanied with an intimation 
that it was written at the age of fifteen ; which 
may serve as an excuse for its errors and de- 
ficiencies. 

****** 
I expect that my work will be announced 
among, the new publications attached to the 
Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews : although 



33 

this will not pledge me to publish at any certain 
period; you may suppose that I am anxious to 
advance as fast as possible. I intend to diver- 
sify this dull track by a trip to Switzerland in 
August; and then plunge again into the abyss 
of learned research, amidst torrents of printers' 
ink, and the picturesque scenery of stained paper. 
I must tell you that I was much pleased with 
your observations respecting artists, and the 
dangers they have to encounter: indeed the 
remarks will apply equally well to any class of 
persons. You know what a strong aversion I 
feel for those habits which degrade the dignity 
of human nature ; and I never see men of talent 
and sense giving way to them without indigna- 
tion : the plea of sociability, and I know not what, 
is a mockery; man ceases to be social when 
reason loses its power; and a false elevation 
of spirits is neither good for the mind nor for 
the body. 

***** * 

I should like to have some account of your 
friend Murray's trip ; I suppose he passed through 
Geneva, concerning which I am desirous to 
procure all the intelligence I am able. I am 
quite aware of what he mentions respecting the 
Lancasterian schools in France, as it is a cause 

c 5 



34 

in which I feel great interest, and I am now 
taking an active part in the formation of an 
auxiliary soeiety for the district in which I 
reside. I believe there are nine hundred es- 
tablished in Prance, notwithstanding the oppo- 
sition of alarmed bigotry and prejudice. Have 
you any idea of the infant population of Paisley ? 
how is education generally afforded ? and what 
proportion do you believe to be uneducated and 
unemployed ? — Scotland has less need of these 
institutions than any other country in the world, 
but facilities should never be neglected. 

I am sorry to find we are not likely to see 
you in London soon, but your intention may 
possibly change. Do not let it be long before I 
hear from you again, for if you take such mon- 
strous intervals as you have lately done, I shall 
be on the banks of the Rhone before I can 
receive a couple of letters from you ; and one in 
three months is intolerable. 

For the present, I must say fare- thee- well, 
and conclude with subscribing myself, &c. 

J.T. 



35 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. Pere, near Caen, August 16, 1819. 
MY DEAR MOTHER, 

You will have heard, I trust, ere this, 
of our safe arrival in France ; and you will now 
be pleased to learn, that we are at present most 
comfortably situated in a beautiful country-house, 
with every convenience and luxury that the land 
affords . But we must proceed by degrees ; we 
had a charming ride down to Brighton, without 
any inconvenience, except on my part one of my 
head-aches, which, however, I preferred having 
at that time, rather than subsequently. In two 
hours I had as much of Brighton as I wished, 
and we embarked soon after seven o'clock for 
Dieppe ; and then began the horrors, though not 
of the kind anticipated ; the sea was in a perfect 
calm, and it soon became evident that we should 
make no way that night; our qualms were very 
slight, but our impatience increased : I went to 
bed about two in the morning, but rose again at 
four to see the ascent of the sun, which having 
witnessed, some unpleasant hints sent me back 



36 

to my bed-chamber, viz. the steward's apartment 
and magazine, which was the more comfortable, 
as it was out of the heat of the cabin. I went 
on deck about nine, and miserable to relate, was 
compelled to remain there the whole of Thurs- 
day ; I can assure you I thought it a Polar day. 
I behaved very well, a little unpolite or so two 
or three times, but the effects were not lasting ; 
William stuck to the planks, as though they had 
been a feather-bed ; and Toward crawled about 
in a moping mood, relieved only by occasional 
chats with the numerous acquaintance he con- 
trived to form : — sometimes a dead silence pre- 
vailed throughout the ship, as if the calm spirit 
of the waters hung over all life, as well as over 
the ocean; at other times our companions af- 
forded us some amusement: a Scotch hotel- 
keeper was the only lively animal on board ; he 
was quite a subject for Walter Scott, but more 
of him presently : we had also a citizen shop- 
keeper and his wife, who had never been beyond 
Margate, and who did not understand a word of 
French; and plenty of sick ladies, and sleepy 
gentlemen. I went to bed on Thursday night 
about ten, and slept marvellously well till five, 
when I had the satisfaction of learning that a 
few hours would convey us into Dieppe ; I got 



37 

up, and hailed the cliffs of Normandy with in- 
finite delight. We were obliged to quit the 
ship on account of low water, and were carried 
into the harbour by a pilot boat, and landed 
about eleven o'clock : as the ship with our bag- 
gage could not enter till the afternoon, we had 
plenty of time to see the town ; which I shall 
not describe, as there is scarcely any alteration 
since you were here. In the afternoon we 
marched to the custom-house, and passed an 
excellent examination, as they say at Oxford; 
the mode of proceeding at the Douane, however, 
is very fair : an officer makes a declaration, that 
if any person has brought over prohibited goods, 
he need only avow it, and they will be re- 
turned to England at his own expence. Now 
be it known to you, that our Scotch friend had 
with him a wife and daughter ; the former of a 
comfortable size, and wishing, I suppose, to 
escape taking cold, had furnished herself with 
sundry articles of Scotch cambric, &c. When the 
interrogatory was put, Mistress Oman denied 
the fact; but the lady-inspector not being quite 
clear upon the subject, detained her for a few 
minutes, till she had examined the other ladies ; 
and then proceeded to a scrutiny, which was 
most unfortunate in its results, — seizure, and a 



38 

fine of twenty pounds, commenced Mr. Oman's 
expences in France : you will not be surprised 
to learn that they kept this affair to themselves, 
though I saw that the old gentleman's loquacity 
had somewhat abated. At ten at night we set 
out for Rouen by the diligence, and arrived there 
at six in the morning ; by which means William 
was enabled to see the beautiful environs of 
Rouen : as it was not then our object to stay 
there, we were glad to find a vehicle departing 
for Caen in about an hour; accordingly we 
were again packed up, but in a lighter carriage, 
which bears the name of Celerifere, it has five or 
six horses, and travels with incredible speed; 
we three, and a French valet, occupied one of 
two bodies that it possesses. The route to Caen 
is highly romantic and beautiful, and very hilly ; 
the heights are crowned with wood, and from a 
very lofty elevation we had a charming view of 
the Seine ; throughout the country the fruit-trees 
are abundant, particularly the apple, as cider is 
the chief beverage of the Normans. We dined 
at a little Auberge on the road, where every 
thing was French, however we were all pleased, 
and were in much better spirits afterwards : we 
did not reach Caen till ten o'clock, consequently 
were obliged to remain there that night. A 



39 

comfortable sleep set all to rights; and early 
yesterday morning we set off for this place, 
about three leagues from Caen : we got here to 
breakfast, and — here we are. I cannot now go 
into all the details respecting the place and its 
inhabitants, which 1 hope to do more satisfac- 
torily when we are once more assembled round 
our coal-fire in England. 

Mrs. I and her family are English ; 

Mr. B , the proprietor, French, but long ac- 
customed to our language &c. from having re- 
sided in Guernsey; the servants are all French. 
Our reception has been most hospitable, accom- 
panied with every comfort, and without the least 
restraint on either side. The unceasing vivacity 

and friendly manners of Mr. B are extremely 

agreeable: and, I believe, Toward thinks the 
whole family, servants and all, the most amiable 
people in the world ! We have already had much 
amusement with him, but it would be impossible 
to convey an adequate impression by letter : he 
and the Norman domestics agree famously, by 
dint of their mutual politeness ; the latter seem 
to be infinitely amused by him, and as the 
kitchen is close to the parlour we often come in 
for a share of the sport : it is not a little curious 
to hear them bawling to each other, in hopes of 



40 

thus making themselves understood; and as 

Mrs. I observed, " the louder in proportion 

as their comprehensive faculties failed." Our 
living is a melange of French and English, viz. 
tea and apricots : Toward has hitherto managed 
to get tea everywhere, — we prefer coffee. The 
seat of all this is a most delightful spot, abound- 
ing with all the luxuries of fruit and flower. The 
property consists of about two hundred acres, 
not including a farm, which is let : the garden 
contains a most beautiful and extensive assem- 
blage of shrubs and flowers, laid out in labyrinths 
and avenues, winding about most agreeably — it 
is quite a Jardin des Plantes ; before the door 
grows the largest orange I ever saw : and in the 
orchards which surround the house are all kinds 
of fruit, to which I need not say we pay our re- 
spects con amove. It is now the forenoon of Mon- 
day ; Mr. B is gone to town and is to send a 

carriage for us, according to the time when the dili- 
gence sets out for Rouen ; this may be either to- 
night or early to-morrow morning, — in either case 
we intend to get into Caen time enough to see a 
lion or two ; it appears a tolerably fine, ancient 
town, approached by some excellent roads. Wil- 
liam the Conqueror built the abbey, and was 
buried in it; this we have yet to see. We have 



41 

seen several varieties of the Norman cap, apper- 
taining to the several departments we have 
passed through, as well as to the stations in life 
of the parties ; some, we understand, to be very- 
expensive. William is altogether much delighted, 
and we have had a most favourable opportunity 
of seeing the country and the people. But I must 
for the present bid you adieu. 

J.T. 



TO MRS. VOWLER. 

Paris, August 22, 1819. 
MY DEAR MADAM, 

****** 

On Wednesday morning at five o'clock 
we left Rouen in the diligence; which, not- 
withstanding the idea commonly entertained in 
England, is a surprising vehicle: and though 
vastly resembling a west-country waggon, per- 
forms its course with astonishing celerity. The 
road we travelled is celebrated as comprising 
some of the most beautiful scenery of France ; it 
follows the course of the Seine for nearly the 
whole distance, insomuch that we crossed it 



42 

seven or eight times during the day : amphi- 
theatres of hills rise on both sides, and are 
covered with vines, thickly planted, and trained 
on short sticks : to me the appearance of a vine- 
yard is extremely delightful, and conveys an 
impression of abundance peculiarly pleasing. 

' * * * * * * 

Towards evening we were evidently approach- 
ing the capital, and had the first specimen of 
royal magnificence in the noble hunting forest 
of St. Germain's, and the palace, long the resi- 
dence of the exiled James II. A glimpse of 
Malmaison, reminded us of days gone by; in 
itself, it is simple and confined, but it is beauti- 
fully situated, and extremely well adapted as a 
retreat. A few more miles brought us to Paris; 
but it was unfortunately too dark to enjoy the 
fine spectacle afforded by an immense straight 
road, the perspective of which is terminated by 
the centre dome of the Thuilleries; this was, 
however, compensated by the brilliant illumina- 
tions of the coffee houses, &c. which are scattered 
over the Elysian Fields, giving them all the 
appearance of an enchanted garden; the im- 
pression was continued, when after passing the 
Place Louis-Quinze, we turned on to one of the 
fashionable Boulevards, where the same scene 



43 

appeared, and was rendered more interesting by 
our proximity. All Paris seemed to be con- 
centered in these walks ; splendid coffee-houses, 
and an infinite number of lights glittered on all 
sides; the humming crowd, and the evident 
devotion to pleasure, seemed to indicate an 
extraordinary festival : and yet this takes place 
every evening while the summer months afford a 
temptation. Being released from our loco-motive 
prison, we took a hackney coach, and drove in 
search of an hotel; we agreed with the first, 
which had been recommended by some friends 
of mine ; it is called the Hotel-de-Suede, and is 
in the Rue de Hichelieu, in the centre of Paris 
and its principal spectacles. William has a 
sitting-room, bed-room, and dressing-room, and 
I have a bed-room on the next flight of stairs ; 
they are all small, but they answer our purpose, 
as we are but little at home. Thursday morning 
was occupied in setting ourselves to rights, and 
in seeing the exterior of the palaces, &c. in the 
neighbourhood; these made a striking impres- 
sion on William's mind, as indeed they are 
calculated to do, from our having nothing at all 
like them in our own country. I could have 
wished it had fallen to his lot to describe this 
part of the journey himself, as it is not possible 



44 

for me to enlarge upon the subject with any 
effect, it being in a great degree familiar to me, 
and not imparting that sense of novelty which 
can alone render any account interesting. Little 
alteration has taken place in the public buildings 
since my former visit; many improvements remain 
unfinished, and not a few in the identical state in 
which I left them three years ago. The manners 
and habits of the Parisians bear the same cha- 
racter as usual, though there is an appearance 
of settlement in the government, which is evident 
in the laxity with which the police regulations 
are enforced, compared with the strictness for- 
merly observed : we have seen many political 
caricatures, as well as other approaches to liberty 
and confidence. 

****** 
The flocks of English resorting to the coffee- 
houses afford us infinite amusement ; the gaping 
wonder of some, and the dilemmas of others : it 
is astonishing how many come over without any 
knowledge of the French language, and some to 
make a stay of considerable duration ; the con- 
sequences may be easily guessed, — they pay 
prices which are out of all reason, and coin 
which they do not understand the value of: — you 
are bowed to on all sides ; a linen draper from 



45 

Fleet Street accosts you in the Pantheon, and 
even the depths of the Catacombs cannot secure 
you from recognition. Planta's Picture of Paris 
is a very Alcoran to them : they eat, drink, walk, 
talk, and I believe sleep according to its direc- 
tions. We dined the other day at a Restau- 
rateurs recommended by Planta, and lo ! the 
English swarmed like bees : an enchanter's wand 
seemed to have been waved over us ; and but for 
the furniture, and the orders given in French, we 
might have deemed ourselves in England. 
* * * * * * 

I should have illustrated our economy of 
time and money, by telling you that we have 
hitherto dined only once in two days : the wants 
of the intermediate ones being supplied by fruit, 
&c. I have pensioned Toward at a neighbour- 
ing Restaurateurs, where he breakfasts and 
dines at his own pleasure, and contrives to make 
himself remarkably comfortable ; and if there is 
a person who speaks English within a quarter 
of a mile, Toward is sure to find him out, and 
turn his acquaintance to advantage. 

Believe me, 

my dear madam, &c. 

J. T. 



46 
TO MR. VOWLER. 

Paris, August 26, 1819. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

It is certainly a very ill-contrived busi- 
ness that it should fall to my lot to describe Paris 
in two successive letters, since nay narrative must 
necessarily be less interesting than that of one 
who sees all the wonders of this great city for the 
first time, and who, moreover, sees many things 
which he confesses he had no idea of previously. 
I fully agree with William, that it is quite im- 
possible to give an adequate idea of the striking 
spectacles which Paris presents ; and as he has 
managed to throw the weight on my shoulders, 
I shall return the compliment, by leaving him to 
give his sketch of last Sunday's excursion to 
Versailles, and continue my story from Monday 
morning. Our first point was Notre Dame, the ex- 
terior of which is inferior to many of our religious 
edifices in England, and to those we have already 
seen in France : its two towers resemble those of 
Westminster Abbey, but the whole structure is 



much smaller; the interior is fine, with broad 
and lofty aisles, ornamented with much splen- 
dour. It is not a little curious to see the cyphers 
of Santa Maria and Louis XVIII. alternated 
round the railing of the altar, as if— what ? the 
authority was equal : — I greatly suspect that the 
latter would be found supreme at present. Hence 
we proceeded to the Jardin des Plantes, passing 
the immense magazines of wood collected on the 
borders of the river, for the supply of fuel during 
the winter. At the garden gate I must pause — 
for it incloses such a wonderful variety of the 
innumerable productions of nature, presenting 
such a succession of remarkable objects, that it 
is difficult even for the memory to pass them in 
the rapid silent review which our minds often 
take, without being able to connect the links 
sufficiently for communication. Imagine an ex- 
tensive space of ground covered with every va- 
riety of tree, plant, and flower, that could be 
procured to live in this climate — the cedar, the 
date, the palm, the bread-tree, the maize — of all 
sizes, and in all states : half of this ground is laid 
out in regular beds, as a practical school of agri- 
culture — the medicinal, the culinary, the fruit- 
bearing, and other plants being all properly class- 
ed, while the different modes of training, fencing, 



48 

preserving, grafting, &c. are also illustrated by 
numerous specimens arranged for fhe purpose. 
The other half of the garden represents a Swiss 
village, with all its varieties of hill and dale, in- 
terspersed with picturesque cottages, altogether 
a la Suisse : these are inhabited by a great num- 
ber of exotic animals, and birds of all kinds, who 
range round their little paddocks in uninterrupted 
enjoyment : in one corner are confined the mon- 
keys and birds of prey, in another the ferocious 
animals of the desert, forming a fine collection 
of lions, tigers, bears, &c; in another part a 
labyrinthine ascent conducts to an eminence 
and monumental temple, whence there is a very 
fine view of the city. From the garden we 
proceeded to the Museum of Natural History, 
which is truly a stupendous assemblage of the 
productions of the animal and mineral kingdoms : 
here are preserved all that man knows of the 
animal creation, from the mighty elephant to the 
smallest fly. Lectures are read in all the sciences 
connected with natural history, so that the esta- 
blishment contains within itself all that is neces- 
sary for these studies. I need not say that there 
is nothing in England which can in any way be 
put in competition with it. Toward was with us 
in this excursion, and was uncommonly struck 



49 

with it. I do not know whether you are infornfed 
that he is the only regular journalist of the party; 
but I assure you he takes care to procure accu- 
rate information as to the spelling of the names 
of the places we pass through and visit, &c. 
* * * * * * 
Yesterday evening we went to the Thuilleries 
to hear the concert given from the gallery, it being 
the eve of the Fete of St. Louis. This exhibition 
is extraordinary in every way ; the effect of the 
music performed by all the best musicians in 
Paris, vocal and instrumental, is most enchant- 
ing; while the silence prevailing among the thou- 
sands of auditors who crowd the terrace is 
scarcely less surprising: I think I may safely 
say there were thirty thousand persons assembled 
in the gardens, whose attention manifested their 
sense of the power of music, and of the excellence 
of that particular performance. The next morn- 
ing, which was the Jour-de-Fete, we made the 
ascent of Montmartre, remarkable for its com- 
manding view over Paris, and for being the scene 
of action when the Allies took the city in 1S14. 
Here we breakfasted, and then mounted the 
telegraph which is placed on a tower erected on 
the ruins of an ancient abbey; from this place the 
prospect is delightful, embracing a near and dis- 

D 



50 

tiaet view of the city, and an extensive one of 
the country around. The keeper of the telegraph 
had been one of Buonaparte's soldiers, and af- 
forded us no little amusement by his attempted 
palliations of the Russian campaign ; he gave us 
also all the particulars of the Battle of Paris, and 
took some pains to convince us that it might have 
been defended. 

****** 
We now turned to the JElysian Fields whither 
all Paris was pouring to enjoy the amusements 
prepared for them : — a most singular scene here 
presented itself; the ground was covered with 
stalls vending all kinds of cakes, and gingerbread, 
and fruit in abundance, of which you will judge 
when I tell you that we bought eight fine large 
peaches for tenpence. Down the principal avenue 
were placed stages for the distribution of provi- 
sions ; from some were thrown bread, and meat 
wrapped in paper, sausages, &c. while wine was 
poured from others, which the scrambling crowd 
collected in vessels of all sorts. In other parts 
were placed two temporary theatres, in which 
small pieces were occasionally played; or- 
chestras for dancing; rope-dancers; tumblers; 
and high poles greased, to the summit of which 
numbers endeavoured to climb for the sake of 



51 

prizes; these constituted the principal amuse- 
ments of the day : in the evening all the public 
offices were illuminated ; the palace-gardens 
blazed with light, and in the Elysian Fields 
every tree bore its tributary candle. The fire- 
works were the grand attraction, and so immense 
was the concourse of people surrounding the 
spot, that it appeared as if the whole of Paris 
was there concentered; yet with all this, so spa- 
cious is the area, and so excellently is every 
thing arranged, that there was not the slightest 
danger, nor any of that terrific crushing which 
characterizes our popular exhibitions. 
****** 

Believe me, dear Sir, &c. 

J. T. 



TO 



Vitot, Department de Cote d"Or, Sept. 4, 1819. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

****** 

Tuesday morning, at six o'clock, we bad 
adieu to the Hotel de Suede, and repaired to 
the starting-place on our formidable expedition 



52 

of eight days and a half, which we could not but 
look forward to as rather a " triste affaire;" at 
all events the commencement was ominous, for 
we found that some of the passengers had ob- 
tained grace for an additional hour, which by a 
series of accidents and manoeuvres was converted 
into three, during which time we were obliged 
to saunter about, thinking of the miseries that 
flapped their raven-wings around us. At length 
the party was complete, and a curious one it 
was. In the interior of the machine (a very 
decent-looking old-fashioned coach, adorned 
with lots of luggage) were Toward ; a Swiss 
" Demoiselle" (I quote the word because I do 
not wish to be responsible for its correctness) 
returning from London, and proclaimed as speak- 
ing English; a French woman with a child of 
three years old ; a French watchmaker going to 
Geneva ; and a young Englishman, named Wylie, 
also going there to finish his education. In the 
cabriolet, a sort of large coachbox covered, we 
were seated; and in front of that, viz. on our 
knees, protected only by the leathern apron, the 
conductor of the machine; this personage pre- 
sented a most unpromising appearance, — his 
countenance and figure resembling those of a 
wild Indian, with the addition of a tobacco-pipe 



53 

which seemed to be in constant requisition : our 
prospect was still farther heightened by the ex- 
position of a dog's head in the aforesaid cabriolet, 
also announced as our companion ; we were told, 
indeed, that his presence was necessary to take 
care of the carriage at night, so that we were 
obliged to submit. Under these auspices we 
began our journey, and, in addition to our other 
comforts, found that the regular pace of the 
vehicle was about four miles an hour, so that if 
any of us felt disposed to walk to Geneva, we 
should run no risk of being left behind : never- 
theless we departed in excellent spirits, which im- 
proved as some of our anticipations brightened; the 
conductor and his dog chose to walk generally, 
and we gradually became habituated to the slow 
march of the machine. The country for the first 
day was uninteresting, and we hailed the halting- 
place for the night with great satisfaction ; it was 
a considerable place, named Melun, and after a 
supper of bread, wine, and fruit, we turned into 
some comfortable beds. On Wednesday morn- 
ing we were called at four, and proceeded on our 
journey at five; the country gradually became 
more interesting; the vineyards began to re- 
appear, and the presence of a good river, the 
Yonne, added not a little to the beauty of the 



54 

route : we lodged for the night at Sens, where 
there was a large fair, which gave us an excellent 
opportunity of viewing the country amusements. 
A beautiful cathedral attracted our immediate 
notice, and on entering it we were much struck 
by its grandeur; it was rich in stained glass 
beautifully ornamenting the windows, end shed- 
ding a glorious tint throughout the building ; a 
superb monument to the Dauphin, father of the 
present king, adorned the centre; the sculpture 
was of the finest order, and the design excellent. 
The next morning, Thursday, we rose at three, 
to perform what is called a grande journee ; we 
travelled through an increasingly interesting 
country, abounding in vines, until seven in the 
evening, when we reached Auxerre, a very nice 
town, pleasantly situated on the Yonne. On 
Friday our journey began altogether to assume a 
more agreeable character; the weather, which 
had been hitherto rainy and dull, cleared up, and 
the continual occurrence of lofty hills gave a 
pleasing variety to the scene : we lost the vines, 
but the changes of country compensated for the 
deficiency. The evening brought us to Rouvray, 
which we found a very mediocre place, though 
abounding in amusement : the bustle our arrival 
occasioned in the kitchen was highly ludicrous, 



55 

and the din was tremendous. I began this letter 
yesterday at Vitot, continued it last night at a 
place called Pont Panni, and am now finishing 
it at Dijon, in a public room : we have yet to see 
the town, and our time is almost expired, so 
adieu. 

J. T. 



TO 



Mont-sou -ut of the Jura, 

o, 1819. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

My last letter was concluded in such 
haste that I hardly know if it was intelligible, 
and I can have no hope of its being interesting : 
I think I mentioned sleeping at Rouvray, which 
was only distinguished by its noise and confusion. 
I have just seen William's memorandum on the 
subject; it is most expressive, being simply — " a 
confounded noise in the kitchen." On Saturday 
morning we advanced through the same kind of 
country, viz. a series of hills continually undu- 
lating : — one ascent which we made in the after- 



56 

noon continued for at least three leagues, during 
great part of which we were gratified by the sight 
of some fine ruins of an old castle in the vicinity : 
immediately after we began a descent nearly as 
steep and long as the hill we had climbed. All 
the progression of twilight took place before we 
reached the place of our destination ; the clouds 
assumed their brightest evening hues ; the sun 
descended in glorious splendor; and the moon, 
just at the full, rose with a brightness and size to 
which we were unaccustomed in England. Our 
place of rest was an inconsiderable village called 
Pont Panni, where we fared as usual ; the night 
was as lovely as could be imagined ; a second 
but a softer day seemed to have risen upon the 
world, and the mighty heaven was one expanse 
of blue light, save where her silver lamp hung 
glittering in the arch ; altogether, it was one of 
the finest effects we have witnessed. 

* * * * * * , 
You would be surprised to observe how much 
we have improved upon this apparently formid- 
able journey, or rather how it has improved upon 
us : our anticipations and mountain-hunting keep 
our minds on the qui vive, and habit has recon- 
ciled us to the various annoyances which threat- 
ened us so fiercely at setting out. Our companion, 



57 

Wylie, affords us considerable amusement ; he is 
a good-tempered young man, has received a good 
education, and possesses about the usual quantum 
of thought at seventeen ; his manners are very 
easy, and his French of the veritable English 
manufacture ; his sympathies and antipathies are 
very diverting, being always in the superlative, 
and never before equalled : among the former are 
the two daily meals which we obtain ; and among 
the latter are the interminable straight roads in 
the heart of France ; and the inside of the coach 
in which he is destined to remain, except when 
he takes the alternative of marching through the 
mud, which he frequently does in a sort of despe- 
ration, though on account of the heat and the 
heavy rains that have fallen, this is infinitely 
worse than the voiture. 

(St. Laurent, on the Jura, 7th.) It is high 
time for me to proceed with my narrative, or I 
shall be compelled to resign the task in despair ; 
you will guess the reason from the date of this 
portion of my letter. After leaving Mont-sous- 
Vaudrey yesterday, we were soon in sight of the 
chain of the Jura, which we were rapidly ap- 
proaching : its appearance at this time scarcely 
merited the appellation of mountains, though 
some ambitious peaks, as we drew nearer, laid 

D 5 



58 

strong claim to the title. The little town of Po- 
ligny was in sight two hours before we reached 
it, situated in a hollow, on the other side of 
which rose a chain of bold and lofty crags, whose 
extent and abruptness produced an imposing ef- 
fect. On our arrival the heavens seemed to 
promise a magnificent sunset ; William, Wylie, 
and myself therefore rushed up the nearest crag : 
with respect to the sun we were disappointed, 
but another scene compensated amply for it; 
reaching a peak at least four hundred feet above 
the level of the town, we found a large amphi- 
theatre of crags rising behind, in various gro- 
tesque and cliff-like forms, of a grey colour, and 
many perpendicular; between these the road as- 
cending from the town wound through a lofty 
valley richly cultivated with grapes and vege- 
tables ; the vines were seen climbing the cliffs in 
all directions, and the air of perfect peace and 
elevation above the world, made a powerful im- 
pression upon us ; we termed it the Happy Valley, 
in imitation of that in Rasselas : the view of the 
town was altogether panoramic, and of the coun- 
try we had passed through, very extensive. We 
descended to an early supper, and rose this 
morning before four o'clock to make the ascent, 
which we began by the brilliant light of the 



59 

moon and a crowd of stars . Passing through the 
Happy Valley, we perceived at once that all the 
beauties of mountain scenery were opening upon 
us ; our road was of course steep and extremely 
serpentine, and by daylight, the whole world 
below, with its morning mists, seemed like a vast 
sea, upon which the distant cottages glittered 
like ships upon the ocean : the track though fre- 
quently having only one immense wall of rocks 
on one side, and a tremendous chasm on the 
other, is broad and good. As we advanced the 
scene became more and more extraordinary; the 
lower world was lost to us ; ours was all hills, and 
firs, and sky ; all the peaks around were crowned 
with pine-firs, but the vallies were fertile in vegeta- 
tion, and spotted with cottages and grazing cattle. 
A considerable town, Champignole, furnished us 
with an excellent breakfast, and after leaving it, 
our situation became every moment more ro- 
mantic : while we were walking in advance, a 
snowy peak at -an immense distance attracted 

our notice — it was the Great St. Bernard 1 at 

what distance 1 am at present ignorant : I can- 
not stop to describe feelings or recall events — 
these must be left to less interrupted hours. 
After some time, we perceived our road in ad- 
vance winding round an abrupt rock which formed 



60 

its wall on one side, while on the other was a 
deep ravine covered with firs, and in the centre 
of which a small stream rushed over the rocks 
beneath, with an effect truly delightful : we as- 
cended on foot, taking a shorter path among the 
woods, and on reaching the summit were amply 
repaid for the labour of climbing ; the whole of 
our preceding route on the mountain opened 
upon us, but interrupted at intervals by the hol- 
lows that concealed its course ; in some places 
there seemed an actual barrier, so that had we 
not passed it, we could not have conceived a 
communication possible. The aspect of popula- 
tion and fertility in these elevated regions is 
beautiful; the cattle are grazing upon peaks 
which still seem lofty to us, though we are al- 
ready so high ; trees, shrubs, and flowers spring 
from the fissures of a rocky surface that would 
seem to defy all vegetation ; and the falls of 
the mountain-streams that spring into the un- 
fathomable depths of the ravines, with such ro- 
mantic effects, turn the mills which employ the 
attention of the inhabitants of this extraordinary 
region : no less extraordinary is it to find con- 
siderable towns, such as the one we are now in ; 
to-night we shall sleep at another, still upon the 
Jura, and to-morrow, I understand, we are to be 



61 

elevated yet higher, before our descent upon 
Geneva. 

****** 
Lake Leman — the Alps — Mont Blanc — the 
City — Switzerland — all are before us, and I 
hope at this time to-morrow evening to be safely 
lodged in Geneva. 

And now farewel, 

J. T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

Geneva, September 11, 1819. 
MY DEAR GEORGE, 

The public news from England we re- 
ceive by a number of channels, and of course 
assuming different shapes ; but I assure you there 
is a general interest felt here in the affairs of 
England, and it was only yesterday we had a 
long conversation with a Swiss coachman upon 
the merits of Mr. Hunt and the riot at Manchester. 
But to leave all these things, and come at once 
to the really formidable task of giving you an 



62 

idea of what we have seen : I must tell you, 
however, that I feel it to be a futile endeavour to 
convey in this manner any impressions which 
may have arisen. 

Within the last few days all kingly palaces, 
and gilded domes, and pomp and gorgeousness 
of men have sunk from before our eyes, " like 
the baseless fabric of a vision;" the empire of 
the mountains is our only sovereignty, and he 
who does not feel its potency is fit only for the 
monarchies of France and Spain. I shall com- 
mence at the foot of the Jura, where the sense 
of mountain-scenery begins, where the romance 
of our journey had its birth, and every moment 
produced new enchantments to astonish and 
confound. 

The ascent takes place from a small town 
called Poligny, situated commodiously under 
some lofty cliffs, which, when we had gained 
them, were receiving the last tints of the setting 
sun : we climbed the most accessible — the sun 
went down, but not so magnificently as we had 
anticipated, though the prospect we commanded 
was sufficient to excite the most lively emotions. 
France lay before us, avast and cultivated plain; 
the distant Soane now borrowed the light of 
heaven to mark its course; the road we had 



63 

passed stretched almost to the horizon; the 
vesper-bells of the scattered villages rung through 
the air; while immediately below us, Poligny, 
with its hum of men, and rattling carriages, 
seemed like the last memento of a world of 
which we appeared to have attained the verge : 
on the other side, crag rose above crag, some- 
times in bold, abrupt, white masses, and some- 
times covered with verdure to their summits ; a 
road wound through a valley enclosed by these 
heights, where cottages and grazing cattle pre- 
sented the very image of pastoral tranquillity : the 
whole effect was beautiful — but I must pass on. 
The next morning we began the ascent by 
moonlight, in perpetual windings through the 
valley I have just mentioned, and on the plain 
which formed its summit, enjoyed all the wonders 
of rising day : the mounting sun, the escaping 
dews, and "life on earth and splendor in the 
sky:" — soon every feature of mountain scenery 
broke upon us ; dark forests of firs climbed the 
crags that seemed to enclose us on every side, 
now rising in tremendous majesty above us, and 
now rooted in some deep ravine below, bringing 
their summits to the level of our path : shrubs, 
flowers, and wild fruit-trees sprung from the 
interstices of the grey rock that seemed the only 



64 

soil of the place. The mountain rills murmured 
along the defiles, leaping into occasional daylight, 
and not unfrequently turned by the hand of man 
to the purposes of industry. Over the whole 
of the Jura, cottages are seen in every direction, 
some in absolute solitude, and on dismal peaks 
that appeared almost inaccessible ; others cluster 
into villages, and even towns, where a favorable 
situation offers. In the course of the morning 
we saw the Great St. Bernard with its hoary top, 
rising in snowy majesty afar : and mark — its 
base is in Italy ! Our road was a continual al- 
ternation of hill and vale, though our course 
gradually attained a higher elevation:- towards 
the afternoon we had another remarkably pre- 
cipitous ascent, bordering a ravine of great depth ; 
and in the evening we had an equally romantic 
descent into the valley and town of Morez, per- 
haps the most extraordinary place we had yet 
seen: viewed from the hill by which we de- 
scended, it had the appearance of a place cut 
off entirely from the surrounding world, seated 
in a narrow defile, between two lines of lofty 
mountains, down which ran the streams which 
supplied the vale, and were converted to a thou- 
sand uses : it was a perfect model — a spot of 
imagination and not of reality. We entered and 



65 

found all bustle and activity ; travellers arriving 
in both directions, and every semblance of life 
and prosperity. In the morning we left it, by 
the longest ascent we had yet encountered, and 
which cost us nearly two hours to gain the sum- 
mit of, but which was equally romantic and 
interesting when gained. About the middle of 
the day we breakfasted at La Vattay, a lone 
house upon the mountain, and from thence still 
ascended through the same kind of scenery. We 
had repeatedly observed that there appeared to 
be no world beyond the Jura ; we were always 
climbing hills, and yet more rose continually 
above us; we were just in this situation, looking 
at the road which completely vanished at a near 
corner, when the driver pointed out a long descent 
as our road, and which we saw distinctly to an 
immense depth. Our eyes were fixed on this 
path, while the carriage was slowly turning the 
corner; suddenly the driver exclaimed, " I am 
wrong!" and on turning round, a prospect too 
magnificent to be described — a sight that, like 
an avalanche, swept away all " trivial fond 
records," confounded our every faculty; the 
Alps were before us ! — Mont Blanc, the monarch 
of mountains, towered into the unclouded sky, 
like the relic of some icy world : the effect it is im« 



66 

possible to give ! it was near us — it was above 
us : our mountains, the Jura, seemed to bow be- 
fore it, while the opening through which we 
viewed it, appeared like a mighty convulsion 
that had rent the cliffs asunder at the beck of a 
superior being. The carriage rolled on, and as 
soon as we were sufficiently collected we attempt- 
ed to discover other objects of interest in the 
vale below. Here the scene was scarcely less 
confounding; between the Jura and the Alps 
lay the plain of Geneva, Lake Leman, and the 
Rhone; but all at such an astonishing depth, 
that we were wholly at a loss to comprehend the 
scene. I can give you no better idea of it, than 
by telling you it resembled exactly the map of 
a gentleman's estate, in which the divisions of 
the fields are simply black lines. Lake Leman, 
which is narrow here, seemed like a small blue 
stream, — all, all was wonderful ! the sense of ele- 
vation, and yet of debasement — the stillness — the 
sublimity — the beauty — and the novelty of the 
scene, can only be conceived by being witnessed. 
Our descent was beautiful in the extreme, and its 
contrast to the opposite scene, added to its effect; 
the same spirit of peace and fertility prevailed ; 
bright spots of verdure, the scattered cottages, 
the browsing cattle with their tinkling bells, the 



67 

fir-clad crags, all that we had hitherto admired, 
were still admirable, and held their place in the 
mind : we walked down the mountain, and saw 
the landscape magnify upon us, and unrol its 
beauties as we approached. 

The city of Geneva at length began to sparkle 
in the sun ; the blue waters of the lake widened 
under the ridge of Alps, till our descent concealed 
it from view. We now rolled through a fertile 
and picturesque country, passing Ferney, the 
abode of Voltaire (about whom I did not care 
one straw), till we entered Geneva. It is of 
little consequence, to describe the town to you ; 
it is ugly, old, and dirty. The Rhone runs 
through it in two branches, and is truly of a most 
beautiful clear blue color, or properly a sulphuric 
green, and rushes from the lake with surprising 
rapidity. The environs of the town are altogether 
beautiful, commanding views of the surrounding 
mountains, the lake, and the vineyards, that 
flourish on its banks : the darkened Jura, or the 
snowy Alps — one or other is always in sight, as 
the intervening step to the unclouded sky that 
extends its blue canopy over the whole scene. 

Yesterday morning we rode to Coppet, the 
seat of Madame de Stael, beautifully situated on 
the northern bank of the lake, about eight miles 



68 

from the town; we had a charming ride to it, 
and reposed ourselves in the grounds, which are 
simple and secluded: the house is large and 
good, but we did not obtain entrance. On our 
return, we had a good view of Diodati, the re- 
sidence of Lord Byron : this is on the southern 
side of the lake, upon an eminence, about half a 
mile from its shores, and the prospect which it 
commands is very extensive. All this I shall be 
much better able to enlarge upon when I see 
you ; in fact my time is getting very short, for 
we have just made an engagement to quit Geneva 

in an hour or two for Italy ! Do not start 

at the word, which is almost a Bobadil, since we 
scarcely set foot in it. In plain terms we are 
going to pass the Simplon, by the far-famed road 
which Napoleon made : this will give us a view 
of the Italian plains, independent of its own 
wonders which are numerous. 

Yesterday evening we walked to see the 
junction of the Rhone and the Arve, which is a 
singular sight : the waters of the latter are dark 
and muddy, and so great seems the repugnance 
of the two rivers to mingle their streams, that for 
some distance they divide the channel between 
them ; the Rhone pursuing its rapid course with 
all its native dignity and lustre. On our return 



69 

we were delighted at beholding the rose-tints with 
which the setting sun tinges the snowy Alps, 
and which you will remember to have been 
noticed by Byron. 

And now, my dear friend, it only remains for 
me to assure you that your name has been often 
on our lips, especially in these regions of enchant- 
ment ; you were with us soon after our first view 
of Mont Blanc, and made one of a select groupe, 
whom we cordially wished could have witnessed 
it with us ; we have drank your health in a bottle 
of Champaigne, the result of a geographical 
wager, by way of special acknowledgment for 
your letter ; mine is a shorter one, but you will 
not believe the feeling less vivid than that which 
dictated yours. At once therefore I subscribe 
myself fand from Switzerland), 

your very sincere friend, 

J. T. 



TO 



Charleville, October 6, 1819. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I DARE say you will think it very odd 
when I tell you that I sincerely regret having 
the opportunity of addressing you some days 
earlier than I expected, but I am sure you will 
sympathise with us when I relate the cause ; the 
fact is, we are shut up here for the whole day, for 
want of a conveyance to carry us to Brussels, 
from which place I hoped and intended to write 
to you, with all the pleasurable feelings arising 
from the prospect of a speedy flight over the 
channel, and then by sundry roads, lanes, and 
other highways to St. Paul's Church Yard. As 
it is, we are still lingering on the French frontier, 
and after working very hard to reach Brussels 
as a point where we might almost feel the air of 
Britain, behold I am reviving the old story of 

" Having nothing else to do, 
I am writing unto you ; " 



and where ? why in the suburb or dependence of 
a dirty frontier town, at leat twenty-four hours 
sharp travelling from Brussels. To come to the 
point, we arrived here last night two hours after 
the coach had departed; and after fretting, con- 
sulting, bargaining, and marching into Mezieres 
before seven o'clock this morning, we find that 
here we must stop till seven this evening, when 
we are to set off for Givet, our last town in 
France, and then get to Brussels as we can. It 
is true we had the alternative of travelling post 
in an open cart, with the probability of arriving 
to-night at Givet after the gates were shut ; and 
be it known to you that a fortified frontier is a 
very awkward thing when a man is in a hurry, 
and may perchance give him the open air for a 
bed-room, if he should happen to be star-gazing 
or what not. But it is time to assume the histo- 
rian, and detail our exertions to arrive at this 
place, where we expected our difficulties would 
end, instead of stopping our march altogether. 
William's last dispatch left us I believe at Stras- 
bourg, where we had taken places in the mail 
for Metz, being then uncertain at what point we 
should enter the Netherlands : this was on Sun- 
day morning, and after putting the aforesaid letter 
in the post, we had just time to repair to the 



cathedral,- where we witnessed a most curious 
spectacle, illustrative of the state of religion in 
these parts. The different troops forming the 
garrison were assembling to hear mass, and 
actually marched into the church with bayonets 
fixed, and covered heads ; they ranged them- 
selves in lines along the nave, and whilst the 
little silver bell of the priest announced the per- 
formance of service at one of the side altars, the 
word of military command resounded through the 
edifice, and the clash of arms upon the pavement, 
seemed to convert the place into a barrack : the 
drums were thundering without, and, when we 
left, more and more soldiers were filing into the 
cathedral. 

At half past twelve we were seated in the 
mail, which is the most comfortable machine for 
travelling in France; it is a large and heavy 
chariot, holding three persons with ease, with a 
cabriolet in front, which contains one other be- 
sides the " courier " or *« conducteur." It travels 
post, and goes at the rate of seven miles an 
hour : fortunately we had this vehicle to our- 
selves, except for about two hours, and as 
Toward rode outside, we found the concern 
altogether " comme ilfaut."' The country between 
Strasbourg and Metz is extremely flat and unin- 



•73 

teresting, that after borrowing William's memory 
to assist my own, I cannot find any thing worthy 
of notice : the only variety was that nuisance of 
a custom-house, where our baggage was searched 
for the third time since leaving Basle ; between 
Basle and Strasbourg we had been visited twice 
in one day, and now, although we had not quitted 
the kingdom, although travelling under the guid- 
ance of a sworn servant of the government, and 
notoriously coming from a place which we could 
not have entered without examination, the whole 
farce was acted over again, and I may add to a 
most crowded audience; for it being Sunday 
afternoon, the whole village was turned out, and 
crowding round our portmanteaus during the in- 
spection ; — we counted more than seventy persons 
actually surrounding the officers, and pressing 
forward to see what the trunks contained. After 
this an officer got into the coach, and peeped 
into every hole and corner, to the infinite amuse- 
ment of your humble servant, who was glad to 
resume his seat, that he might laugh with greater 
security. We reached Metz about eight o'clock 
the next morning, where we halted for four hours, 
which gave us an opportunity of skimming the 
town, which is of considerable extent, and bears 
evident marks of having once been a place of 

E 



74 

importance ; its consequence is now much di- 
minished, and the Revolution has left a very 
legible stamp of its influence : the cathedral, 
which is a fine Gothic structure, is greatly in- 
jured; and close to it is a large building, for- 
merly a palace, entirely in ruins. The principal 
ornaments of the interior of the cathedral are two 
immense painted windows, in high preservation, 
and altogether the most magnificent we have yet 
seen. 

The devotees, as usual, afforded us abund- 
ance of matter : one of the Lancasterian schools 
attended to hear mass, and the boys, in number 
about three hundred, were ranged in files-below 
the altar ; on the steps, immediately opposite the 
altar, stood the beadle of the church, with a hal- 
bert in one hand and a cane in the other ; on his 
head a military hat and feather ; a scarlet uni- 
form and sword ; in figure, dress, and attitude, 
looking like a centinel, or a scarecrow, or any 
thing but what he was. In one corner was an 
image of some saint with no less than seventy 
candles actually burning before it, by which we 
concluded that the reputation of the aforesaid 
saint must be very great : close to it was an old 
woman on her knees, muttering lots of prayers, 
but spying us, she frisked up with great alacrity, 



-75 

and began to implore our charity most devoutly : 
being, however, unsuccessful, the old dame fell 
to work again, first violently kicking out of her 
way (in illustration of her own charitable feel- 
ings) a little dog who threatened to interrupt her 
devotions : the whole scene Was a fine illustra- 
tion of the spirit and influence of catholic cere- 
monials, and I should add, that whilst all this 
was going on, the bricklayers and plasterers were 
repairing the opposite aisle. 

****** 
On arriving here, at ten o'clock last night, we 
made a host of agreeable discoveries, viz. that 
there was no coach going forward in the morning; 
that there was none at any time direct to Brus- 
sels ; that it would take at least two days to get 
there if we hired a carriage ; and that we must go 
back to Mezieres to make the necessary inquiries : 
accordingly we marched thither early this morn- 
ing, and made an attack upon the postmaster, 
which terminated as I have before related* The 
loss of a day at this period is a crying grievance, 
but we must work hard and make the Napoleons 
fly in order to overtake Time : by the by we 
shall want an easterly wind early in next week, 
and I beg you will all wish, during the whole of 
Monday and Tuesday, for a comfortable sharp 
breeze, bound like ourselves for England. 



76 

We stepped into the principal church of 
Mezieres this morning; it is very ancient, but 
contains nothing remarkable except a large black 
image of the Virgin, having a white Infant in her 
arms ! " Oh ! the simplicity of these people/' as 
Toward says, when they fill his tea-pot with cold 
water. We had two companions of singularly 
opposite characters yesterday afternoon in the 
coach; the one was a sister of charity or re- 
ligieuse, whose occupation is to attend the sick 
poor, and the other was a retired officer who had 
served under IMapoleon. With the latter we had 
a good deal of curious conversation, which I 
have not left myself room to relate ; it was mainly 
on the old topic, the downfal of Napoleon, which 
he explained in the usual way that the French 
account for the affair — treachery within, and an 
overwhelming force without. But — enter plates 
and dishes — so here must end my letter. 

J. T. 



77 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 



London, Friday Evening, Nov. 26, 1819. 
MY DEAR GEORGE, 

Although it is nearly a week since I 
received your letter, you will, I am sure, give 
me due credit when I tell you that this is the 
first moment of leisure I could devote to the 
pleasing occupation of replying to your missive. 
My mornings, you know, are occupied with my 
grand operations, which I beg you will consider 
as the thirteenth labour of Hercules, and my 
evenings you shall have in order; — Monday, St. 
Paul's; Tuesday, Athenaeum; Wednesday, St. 
Paul's (special); Thursday, Alsop; Friday, sit- 
ting by a cheerful fire writing to George Fisk — 
and truly a man must have no other companion 
than his fire when he sits down to answer such a 
letter as yours— unless the letter be misdirected, 
which is not the case in the present instance, as 
I hope to prove; and if I can show myself able 
to sympathize and return the ardent and peculiar 
feelings which you have there given way to, I 



7S 

shall be satisfied that I am not quite unworthy 
to stand by the side of him who gave them birth. 
I can understand the sensations you would ex- 
perience on finding yourself once more among 
the scenes of your childhood, after passing 
through that period of life which is in all re- 
spects its most interesting stage — when all the 
stores of the soul are opened and applied — when 
the great treasury of the good and ill that attend 
our lives is generally unlocked, and our minds 
take a hue which lasts even unto age, and not 
unfrequently tinges all the objects that engage 
our attention. I rejoice to see that you look 
back upon the past with that warm feeling of 
pleasure which you evince, for in truth it con- 
tains so little to excite an opposite sensation, 
that it is but a handsome acknowledgment of 
your obligations : your cares, your vexations, 
your disappointments, have been neither numer- 
ous nor very oppressive, and — they are gone — 
leaving you to enter the world hand in hand with 
Hope, and with a consciousness of right within 
that would defy a host of obstacles.— Remember, 
I am speaking of your heart, and not of your 
nerves. You know I am a disciple of Memory, 
who binds me by the best of all ties— gratitude ; 
and though the moralist may find her reign is but 



79 

the monarchy of dreams, yet they are certainly 
more valuable than the uncertain will-of-the-wisp 
visions of the future ; we can say these things 
have been — and we know that our recollections of 
good and of evil are not mere barren relics ; their 
influence steals silently into the heart, and grows 
like the ivy on the ruined wall, breathing a moral 
and a joy that will not fade. Our life is made up 
of dreams — the past and the future— the imagi- 
nation and the heart — all have their dreams, and 
we become the sport of shadows. The practicals 
who laugh at their influence, are like ignorant 
country apothecaries, who know not what the 
disease is they pretend to cure. They have " the 
tyranny of pleasure and of pain ;" they are either 
friends whom we cannot sufficiently repay, or 
foes whom we cannot conquer. But I am bound 
to the past, I owe the future nothing. 

In turning to that part of your letter which 
refers to your connexion with myself, I scarcely 
know how to answer you, — to express the feel- 
ings to which that effusion of the heart has given 
rise — to convey in fitting language what my own 
bosom prompts me to say. I never do or will 
employ terms that go beyond the feelings ex- 
cited; but if a habitude that seeks only truth 
and sincerity should make me seem scrupulous, 



80 

when no caution, no limitation is required, and 
no charge of insincerity can be incurred, I must 
plead to those friends who know my heart, to 
trust that it truly and affectionately responds to 
those warm feelings that form its happiness and 
pride. What you have said of me is indeed 
gratifying to a degree of oppression, but I know 
that it proceeds from a soul incapable of flattery, 
and I take it as the delightful testimony of a 
friendship, pure and unbounded, whose overflow- 
ings place us side by side, upon an eminence, 
with equal honour and gratification. I cannot 
certainly say with you, George, that you were 
my first friend ; but in my dominion, seniority 
does not monopolize all the inheritance, and most 
cordially can I declare, that you are one of those 
few who have constituted the happiness of my 
life. If ever there was a mortal who stood in 
need of those ties of the heart " which make us 
love to live," (I will not add, " fear to die,") it is 
myself; and if ever mortal was fortunate in the 
formation of them, as far as they go, it is myself; 
they are all in all to me ; without them, life would 
have more than the accustomed loneliness of so- 
litude. I live only in the sunshine of friendship, 
in the affections of my friends, — the highest plea- 
sures I expect to enjoy on this side the grave : 



81 

and when I think of myself— of what I was, and 
what I am ; of my own feelings, and of the friends 
who surround me — I cannot but feel that my first 
duty is gratitude to Him whose creatures we 
all are ; and my second, an endeavour to answer 
the ardent feelings and expectations of my friends, 
as the only return I can make for the blessings I 
receive from them. I may sometimes require 
their forbearance — my nature and situation are 
not of the ordinary stamp — but if they can ever 
truly charge me with coldness, I will sink into 
the darkness of my soul, and never more seek 
the light of affection, or the mental charities that 
are needed by the proudest of men. I shall not 
go on to apply what I have now said to your- 
self; your own heart will inform you of what I 
owe to your friendship : you know also my com- 
position, and many of the secret springs that 
actuate my opinions and sensations — and I can- 
not add more to your conviction of the sincerity 
of my heart, if I were to protest in quarto, both 
of which, as you know, are my aversion. I have 
dwelt so long upon this subject, that I have left 
but little room for the bundle of scraps which 
remains, so I must make short work of it. 

Now, if you please, we will adjourn to St. 
Paul's, where you may be sure you are not for- 

E5 



82 

gotten, either on Monday or any other day. 
They all desire their kindest remembrances to 
you, with two or three messages which I shall 
recollect presently. Oh ! one is from my young 
ladies (and in which I heartily join, be it known 
to you) who protest against the exercise of 
sporting; notwithstanding that, the hares were 
remarkably fine, and as far as I know, were 
eaten with a good appetite : Mr. V. dined with 
me on the occasion, and joined me in cordial 
after-dinner acknowledgments to the donor. 
Nevertheless, you must leave off shooting, or 
incur an Anathema Maranatha from my chan- 
cery. I am also desired by the aforesaid ladies 
to express their regret, that you were absent on 
the arrival of Mont-Blanc and Lake Leman in 
this country : surprising event, was it not ? 

Will is gone to Bristol ; he left on Monday, 
and will return, I fancy, next week : speaking of 
journeys, how dare you parody my letters from 
Switzerland, you impertinent piece of parch- 
ment ! if you do so again, you shall be banished 
to Salisbury Plain, and have no object to gaze 
upon, " but an Ass on a Common, or a Goose 
on a Green." How does the country y?£, after a 
fortnight's trial ? I should think it must be power- 
fully attractive at this season of the year ; but to 



83 

be sure, the society of the Sokens — Humph! 
Query. How many things have I omitted which 
I ought to have said ? Ah, well — it is not worth 
the reckoning: I may think of some of them ere 
my next reply, which you may occasion as soon 
as you please. Adieu ; believe me to be, most 
sincerely, your faithful friend, 

J. T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

London, Dec. 21, 1819. 
MY DEAR GEORGE, 

I have not replied to your letter so 
soon as I ought and intended, relying on being 
able to devote an evening for the purpose ; but 
my head has within these few days given me 
sundry hints to suspend my evening perform- 
ances for a season. Not being pleased with this 

kind of dictation, I applied to M , but the 

recreant decided against me : so you must e'en 
take a letter written under the influence, real and 
imaginary, of a black draught, as he appropriately 



84 

styles it, which he has seduced me to take this 
morning. Argles — if thou shouldst perceive any- 
thing lack-a-daisical and qualmish in this my 
letter missive, thou must attribute it to the 
tyranny by which I am controlled, and as written 
under compulsion and restraint, revocable in a 
brighter mood. 

Referring to yours, the first topic of import- 
ance that I find in it, is a wide misconstruction 
of some expressions in my former letter, which I 
am most anxious to put to rights. How could 
you imagine that the sentence — " I never em- 
ploy terms that go beyond the feeling excited " 
— was a concealed reproof to you for the undis- 
guised manifestation of warm feeling contained 
in your former letter? Indeed, my dear George, 
it is far, very far from my wish, that you should 
control your feelings to any set form of words, or 
exclude phrases from your communications,which 
the suggestions of your heart prompt you to use, 
as the index of its sentiments. I, and all who 
have been able to form a just estimate of your 
character, know full well how sincere are the ex- 
pressions which flow from your heart, and you 
may rest assured that none will see your corres- 
pondence who would be likely to form different 
conclusions : I trust I may extend this latter ob- 



85 

serration to my own letters. Do not then suffer 
any scruples or worldly-qualifying motives, to 
check the effusions which your free soul would 
pour forth; and however warm your language 
may be, the only caution that I would breathe 
upon the subject is, that you do not use it to per- 
sons who are incapable of appreciating its mo- 
tives and object ; the single-hearted are few, and 
in dealing with those to whom the world has 
given obliquity of thought, or insensibility, we 
owe it to our own feelings not to provoke their 
ridicule, or tempt them to misinterpretation. Few, 
very few persons know the scope and tone of mij 
feelings, and I am sorry to say my experience and 
habits, for which I am not responsible, have 
given me a reserve and apparent coldness which 
I fear disguises me even to those before whom I 
would wear neither disguise nor reserve, nor any 
thing that should interpose between their regard 
and myself, who am so much dependant upon 
that, for the happiness I enjoy. The remark 
which has excited your apprehension (although I 
do not now remember the context) was only 
meant to convey the impression of the sincerity I 
ever wish to be conspicuous in my words and 
actions : perhaps the remark was altogether un- 
necessary; for as my expressions are but too 



S6 

often under my feelings, there was the less pro- 
bability of the caution being required. You, I 
am sure, will not doubt my sincerity when I say, 
that whatever I may have said or written of 
friendship towards yourself, has been but an im- 
perfect transcript of the feeling my heart has 
cherished; but I shall be satisfied by knowing 
that your faith supplies the deficiencies of my 
tongue and pen, and that albeit the well is deep, 
your eye is strong enough to see the stars re- 
flected at the bottom. You say it is your mis- 
fortune to feel too quickly — true, it is a misfor- 
tune; or rather it is one of those wayward spirits, 
dispensing smiles and tears with the same liberal 
hand, balancing pleasure against pain in very 
wantonness, and wrapping its own character in 
such a shroud, that one knows not whether it be 
a happiness or a misery. It is a light or a shadow 
upon the chequer of our lives, as circumstances 
call it into action, and I should be sorry to lose 
all chance of its future good, to avoid the cer- 
tainty of its present evil. 

Pr'ythee, George, let me have no more of thy 
" Philosophy," for it sitteth not well upon thee — 
thou hast no pretensions to it — and thou hast 
written the word as if thou wert afraid of it, 
glaring upon us like a magnificent twilight spectre, 



S7 

I am not anxious to be thought a philosopher, 
and am therefore not in a mood to be benefited 
by thy instructions; especially as thine are all 
precept, and nothing but a mask to thy graceless 
example. 

You desire me to write you a long letter, but 
if I do I fear you will not have it this week, for 
I have been two days struggling thus far, and I 
am apprehensive the quarrel between me and my 
head will not terminate without bloodshed ; but 
really to be compelled to do nothing, is a nuisance, 
and I verily believe I cannot be in worse com- 
pany than when left alone with my imagination. 

****** 
And now be it known unto you, that while I am 
taking physic, Will (our Will) is taking a ques- 
tion!! both, to prevent corpulence: he, growing 
lean upon Pitt's Administration, and I upon 
Maples's ; that the knife and fork may be a well- 
matched pair. Oh, fortunate spoon ! who art at 
liberty to get as fat as Falstaff, without being 
interrupted by politics or phlebotomy. Did I 
say Falstaff? " honest Jack" reminds me of 
honest Tom, of whom thou inquirest. Well then, 

T has been parleying with manager Bunn 

about an engagement for him at Birmingham; 
but, as the manager wants the " ocular proof," 



S3 

farther proceedings depend on Tom's capability 
of making a pilgrimage to Birmingham, for the 
purpose of being gazed at. 

****** 
I am now laying close siege to T — and H — , to 
induce them to commence the printing operations, 

and I hope to succeed by bribing T with a 

cup of tea to-morrow. And now farewel ; give 
my respects to your father and mother, and my 
congratulations on the return of a season which 
those who are bound to each other by the ties of 
friendship or neighborhood never suffer to pass 
unnoticed. To yourself, I have nothing new to 
say, so you must take the old assurance, that I 
am, most faithfully, your very sincere friend, 

J. T. 



TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 

OF PAISLEY. 



London, November 29, 1819. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

For once I have given you occasion 
to complain of silence and delay, as I have been 
returned some time without having answered 



89 

your letter, and I freely consent that this may be 
placed to my account, though the balance is 
greatly against you. Have you not broken as 
many promises as a minister of state, including 
not a few of reformation for the future ? You see 
I am prompt to commence the attack upon you, that 
I may silence your charges against myself; but 
the truth is, that my anxiety to repair the breach 
occasioned by my long absence, has, together 
with the requisitions of friends here, left me but 
little leisure, and this must be my apology. My 
first impulse and duty is to acknowledge most 
thankfully the great trouble you have had on my 
account in various ways ; and I am ashamed to 
think that you should have been annoyed in such 
a manner for the gratification of my wishes. 
With respect to the list of the Royal Society of 
Edinburgh, if you have not received it, I beg 

you will not give yourself or Mr. R ■ any 

further trouble about it. I am much obliged to 
you for the Education Returns, which I intend 
to lay before the British and Foreign School. 
Society for their consideration. 

You will be anxious to hear something of my 
excursion, which I assure you was most delight- 
ful throughout; amid scenery and human varieties 
of the most interesting kind — enjoyed in beautiful 



90 

weather, and unclouded by any disagreeable cir- 
cumstances worth remembering as such : we 
were out about nine weeks, during which we 
scoured over Normandy, Paris, Burgundy, 
Switzerland, the Vallais, the Rhenish frontier of 
France, and the Netherlands. We gazed upon 
Italy, we were in its vallies, we heard its lan- 
guage \ but our stay was too transient to consider 
it as a visited country. To give you any in- 
teresting particulars of the tour, in the compass 
of a letter, is out of the question ; but if it will 
afford you any pleasure to know the course we 
took, I will tell you that we went from Paris to 
Geneva; from Geneva through the Vallais to 
the Simplon, and back to Lausanne ; thence to 
Yverdun and Berne ; and then, after a short ex- 
cursion to the glaciers of Grindelwald, to Basle 
on the Rhine, to Strasbourg, and so into the 
Netherlands by Metz, Verdun, Mezieres, and 
Namur : we then proceeded to Brussels by 
Waterloo, and then to Antwerp ; and descended 
by Ghent and Bruges to Ostend, where we em- 
barked for England. 

In all this, we have seen and done as much 
as could possibly be expected in the time : Paris, 
Switzerland, and the cities of the Netherlands, 
are each worthy of a distinct tour, — we embraced 



91 

them all, their various attractions relieved each 
other in our minds, and their several and opposite 
impressions will remain with us as long as me- 
mory holds her seat unshaken. The mountain 
scenery of Switzerland is as sublime as untravelled 
anticipation could suggest; and one scene far 
exceeded all that our imaginations had dreamed 
of. This was the first view of Mont- Blanc from 
the mountains of the Jura, where the whole 
chain of the Savoy Alps burst upon the view at 
once, with a grandeur and a strangeness past 
description. The day was bright and unclouded ; 
every summit was distinctly visible, glittering 
with eternal snows, in the light of the sun ; the 
lake of Geneva lay below, and its enchanting 
environs; the contrasted wonders and beauties 
of the scene made up a whole that has never 
been equalled in our eyes, and in all probability 
never will. Of individual wonders we have had 
plenty ; the great road made by Buonaparte over 
the Simplon is a magnificent work, and the scenery 
in which it is placed very sublime ; the glaciers 
are astonishing; the avalanches, and indeed all 
the phenomena of the Alpine regions, are most 
extraordinary, and make a powerful impression 
upon those who are unaccustomed to them. The 
Netherland cities are uncommonly fine, and may 



92 

be visited with so little expense of time and 
money, that I should recommend you a trip to 
Antwerp next summer. 

I do not know how I am to request that I 
may hear from you shortly; I believe I must 
invoke you by your past offences, which are 
weighty enough to crush mine into oblivion. 

Believe me, &c. &c. 

J. T. 



TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 

Bernard Street, November 10, Anno 3. 
MY DEAR LORD, 

According to agreement, I write to 
apprize your lordship that I cannot be respon- 
sible for more than four tickets, as I have had 
no further applications since the breaking up of 
the council. I am sorry to inform your lordship 
that alarming symptoms of disaffection have been 
discovered in one of the departments of adminis- 
tration, which may possibly lead to the impeach- 
ment of an individual of high rank in the state. 
Indeed, my lord, these are perilous times, when 



93 

revolution stalks abroad under the specious pre- 
tence of reform, and aims at nothing less than the 
destruction of the privileged orders of society. I 
am sure I need not remind you, as a privy coun- 
sellor, that this is at present one of the king's 
secrets. Should your lordship not be prevented 
by the duties of your high station, I should be 
glad to have a private conference with you on 
the subject, as I must submit the case to his 
majesty in a day or two. I am, 
my dear lord, 

very sincerely yours, 

Tyson. Chancellor. 

P. S. His Majesty has received a letter from 
Prince Hamlet, Lord Lieutenant of the County of 
Nottingham, full of loyal regrets that his duties 
will not permit him to congratulate his majesty, 
in person, on the anniversary of his happy acces- 
sion to the throne. 

P.P. S. Will your lordship pardon me for re- 
minding you to prepare a spacious anti-room for 
the reception of the court to-morrow, previous to 
the opening of the grand saloon ? 

To William, Count of the Acropolis, Grand 



94 



Cross of the Order of the Athenian Owl, Lord 
High Steward of Attica, one of His Majesty's 
Most Honorable Privy Council, &c &c. &c. 



TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM . 

Bernard Street, December 27, 1819. 
MY DEAR WILLIAM, 

I AM very sorry to tell you I cannot 
possibly be in St. Paul's to-day : I found my 
head much worse yesterday afternoon at Ken- 
nington, the back part being oppressed with a 
heaviness that I could not get rid of. I there- 
fore determined to march off to M at once, 

and descending from the stage at Ludgate Hill, 
proceeded thither, fully anticipating farther blood- 
shed. M was however unwilling, and did 

not consider it necessary; but immediately put 
me into a coach, and drove me off to Bernard 
Street, where he administered physic to my throat, 
and warm water to my feet, all which produced 
a beneficial effect, and I remain freed from the 
most disagreeable of the sensations. But, alas ! 



, 95 

no egress for this day ; and his injunctions and 
his physic, will effectually prevent me the pleasure 
of meeting my friends, according to hebdomadal 
custom, and doom me to a double solitude, for 
so a Monday confinement will seem. To-morrow 
too — oh dear ! what shall I do : I had half re- 
solved (but hush!) to cheat him to night,— but 
he has me too fast. The creature says he has 
been too indulgent to me, but that he took com- 
passion on my desolate situation, &c. A fig's 
end, say I; but where's the use of saying any 
thing: I can't get out. Cannot you apply a 
steam-engine to your house and drive West? 
Toward is coming for medicine, and brings my 
Lament: — I can't get out, I tell you. I must not 
detain him, but I will say, that the man who 

asserts my case is not a hard one, is a 

what ? why, an apothecary at least. 

Remember me most kindly, but dolefully, to 

all my friends, and tell them all 1 can't get 

out; and these are the last words of your 
unhappy cageling, 

James. 



TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM, 

(then at Antwerp). 

London, Febuary 11, 1820, 
MY DEAR WILLIAM, 

It is not only according to the accus- 
tomed forms of epistolary style, but with cordial 
sincerity of heart, that I commence with trusting 
that this will rind you in your course, without 
" scathe or sair," and making the advantages of 
your expedition out-balance the unpleasantness 
of travelling dans une saison comme ceci, and of 
lonely sojourning in a foreign land. For my own 
part, I have, without actually quitting this good 
city of London, journeyed with you in all the 
well-remembered varieties of vehicular con- 
veyance, from the Ghent barge, with its silent 
gliding, to the Antwerp diligence, rumbling and 
racketting with ten inside, just crammed at a 
table d'hote in Brussels. Then rise all the mon- 
strosities of Flemish architecture before me ; the 
outlandish turrets of Bruges ; the forested steeples 
of Ghent ; the elephantine tower of old Mecklin ; 
and the imperial spire of Antwerp. I see once 



97 

more the ostade casements in the villages, and the 
pi *— | roofs in the cities : " Tabak te koop" 
shines over the doors, and the eternal jingle of 
the Antwerp bells rings in my ears. Well, to 
be sure, these Dutchmen are not veiy remark- 
able for taste, but I hope they admire thy prints, 
and covet their possession ; — solutd pecunid — as 
we say. Truly it was a rash promise I made of 
writing to you, seeing that I have nothing to 
communicate worthy of being sent into " parts 
beyond sea," as the old phrase hath it. My life 
hath passed in its usual course, and you may 
nearly anticipate its journal. On Monday after- 
noon I was of course in St. Paul's, where F - 

and I enlivened the party by a couple of head- 
aches (one each), which you may suppose were 
vastly agreeable to all the parties. I was there 
again yesterday (Wednesday) for a short time, 
and found all as well as usual. I then proceeded 
to besiege T — and H — , and carried the fortress 
without difficulty, owing to the good disposition 
of the garrison, who immediately took the oath 
of allegiance, and agreed to my requisition of 

750 sheets of paper, to be furnished in a 

fortnight, together with the services of sundry 
devils and other useful agents of war : thus much 
for the commencement of my campaign, which 

F 



98 

should, I think, be recorded in a bulletin of the 
grand army, a la mode Napoleon. 

Of public news there is little that is impor- 
tant ; his most excellent Majesty is declared free 
from complaint, and has actually condescended 
to be reconciled to the Duke of Sussex : — oh ! the 
virtues of phlebotomy! yet a little more, Sir 
Henry — and all loyal subjects may shout, Long- 
live the Queen. 

Sir William Curtis is put forth as a candidate 
for London, by a host of friends, and mischievous 
rumour is already busy with the anticipated fate 
of poor * * * * alias Orator Mum, whose honest 
and very judicious silence it is thought will give 
way to the enlightened eloquence of the poor 
baronet. Mr. Hunt is somewhat impatient— the 
chief justice quite the reverse — and I think de- 
serves canonization more than half the saints in 
the calendar. The affairs of Spain are still 
wrapped in a veil of mystery, while we are 
teazed every day with contradictions enough to 
worry Judge Abbot himself. 

****** 

Adieu — believe me ever most faithfully, &c. 

J. T. 



99 



TO HIS FRIEND GEOItGE. 

London, Febuary 15, 1820. 
How dare you expect, you scurrilous 
Turk, a letter from me at all ? If I thought you 
were anxiously waiting for news from me, it 
would only be a just punishment upon your im- 
pertinence, to throw down the pen and put the 
paper into the fire. You, a pettifogging parish 
attorney — but there is the secret ; you have be- 
come so familiar with stocks and whipping-posts 
that you want to lavish their favors on all your 
friends : I have a great mind to prosecute you 
for practising without a license, and then we 
should see what would become of your law. 
You say, how do I know that your letter was 
not written from the foot of Mont-Blanc ? be- 
cause that would have brought you to your 
senses, if any thing could effect that desirable 
object : so, if you follow my advice, you will set 
off without delay for Switzerland — and yet, you 
comical rascal, I have laughed as much at what 
you have not said, as at what you have, which is 



100 

infinitely to your advantage, as I might other- 
wise have out-tickled you Master Stephen. 

Now I dare say, you prince of parish whip- 
pers, that you are wondering what has become 
of your anticipated exaltation at * 
but be it known to your sublimity, that you must 
wait some few days longer before either yea or 
nay is vouchsafed to you ; so that if you do not 
obtain the situation of parish beadle in the mean 
time, (for which you seem anxious to qualify 
yourself) you may write sonnets to Suspense, 
and send them to the London Magazine. 

****** 
And now presenting (but not as a matter of 
course) the kind remembrances of all thy friends 
within my reach, I subscribe myself once 
more, &c. &c. 

J. 1\ 



101 



TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 

OF PAISLEY. 

London, February 16, 1820, 
MY DEAR MILLER, 

T had resolved to devote this morning 
to you, and to usher myself once more into your 
presence, after a tremendous absence, when 
Mr. V informed me that he had received a 

letter from you, containing some very natural 
inquiries, as to whether I were yet an inhabitant 
of this sublunary world ; and truly your letter to 
me bearing date the 12th of December, has lain 
unanswered for such an incredible period, that 
you might reasonably entertain doubts upon the 
subject, if your faith in my friendship were suffi- 
ciently strong to prevent your entertaining fears 
of another description. The cause however is 
soon explained — indisposition, and that of a very 
annoying character in my situation. Within a 
few days from the receipt of yours, I found a 
strong determination of blood to the head, with 
all the unpleasant symptoms attendant upon 
plethora, which soon rendered medical advice 



102 

necessary. The result was, that I was speedily 
deprived of twenty-eight ounces of blood, and 
otherwise reduced. From these measures I cer- 
tainly found relief, but another evil has arisen, 
which though not of an alarming nature, has 
been scarcely less fatal to my habits and pur- 
suits. This was a nervous affection of the head, 
which refusing to yield to blisters, lotions, and 
such-like remedies, has most severely taxed my , 
patience, in compelling me to refrain from writ- 
ing, and all kinds of mental exertion. The 
month of January passed almost entirely in idle- 
ness, but under existing circumstances, as I will 
presently explain, it was impossible such a state 
of being should continue. The sensations are 
now much better, though by no means removed, 
and from the necessity of occupation, I fear they 
will continue to be my companions until the 
summer or sweet rest shall emancipate me from 
them. The fact is, my book is gone to press, 
while at the same time a considerable portion is 
yet unwritten, and I expect at least six months 
hard work before it can be completed ; so that 
my brain is likely to have quite as much occupa- 
tion as it can bear. It must necessarily be a 
point with me, to write as little as possible be- 
yond what is absolutely necessary ; and as this 



103 

has been already the plea for long silence, so, 
alas ! must it be for continuing to be a bad cor- 
respondent, until more favorable times. When 
I tell you that you will not hear from me often, 
I do it with the confidence that I am addressing 
one who will believe that my inclination has no 
share in my silence, and that my regard for him 
cannot suffer by its operation. I hope you will 
remember that I shall always be most happy to 
hear from you, and you may be assured that I 
shall not let a favorable opportunity of replying 
escape me. 

I could not help being amused and astonished 
by your account of your industry and exertions 
at the Institution, which I really think owes you 
a great deal: how you possibly find time to 
attend to so many, and such laborious pursuits, I 
cannot comprehend; and with the experienced 
caution of an invalid, I must warn you not to 
over-inform your brain, lest you forfeit that 
health which is of more importance to you than 
all the lights, or reputation of science. 

Of public news I have little worth communi- 
cating; the infancy of the new reign puts all 
things into suspense ; I do not think it will be an 
auspicious one : we are already menaced with a 
revival of the old family quarrel bursting forth, 



104 

even before our discreet, decent, and pious 
sovereign is buried. The ministers had nearly 
gone out yesterday, in consequence of violent 
discussions about the Queen. 

My reading at present is confined to the 
works necessary to my researches, and light 
publications — by the way, look out in the maga- 
zines for my announcement ; it is in the London 
Magazine for this month, the British Critic, &c. 
I see I have forgotten to answer your question 
about craniology : I am not a convert to its 
fancies, which I consider as connected with that 
philosophy which has been thrust forth in the 
present day, reviving the old errors of materialism 
under new and specious shapes. 

Believe me ever, &c. &c. 

J. T. 



TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 

OF PAISLEY. 

London, May 7, 1820. 
MY DEAR MILLER, 

****** 

At present I am involved in the old 
affair : I am under the surveillance of the high 



105 

police of the publisher and printer, and for some 
cause or other am actually kept to hard labor. 
I think of procuring a medical certificate to 
enable me to visit the sea-shore for about a week 
in August, otherwise I shall remain in durance 
until the commencement of winter : so much for 
the honors of authorship. I wish I could answer 
your kind inquiries as to my health with satis- 
faction to you and myself; but at present I am 
far from well ; I have an affection of the lungs, 
produced by the fluctuations of this treacherous 
climate, and a blister, which I put on the other 
night, does not seem to have assisted me much. 
The weather is still cold and changeable, and I 
fear that little is to be done till kindly Summer 
lends her aid : would she were here ! for con- 
finement does me harm, and the air is prohibited, 
so that I have no resource but to submit with 
patience. 

****** 
I am aware of the advantage which the dis- 
turbances in your radical town have given, in our 
argument about the Six Acts, as they are em- 
phatically styled ; but I am still so suspicious of 
the men to whom these extra powers have been 
given, that I shall much rejoice if they are allowed 
quietly to expire. There is a spirit of military 

F5 



106 

encroachment at head quarters, which requires 
almost as much watching as the radicals, and if 
the state of the country be strictly inquired into, 
it will be found that so much of the blame rests 
ultimately with the government, that it is high 
time to reform the system — and that will be the 
end of it — mark me. I am not a radical, except 
in the opinion that all abuses should be rooted 
out if possible, but I am an enemy to all theo- 
retical constitutions. Time makes the best 
governments, if the weeds be not suffered to 
injure the structure. 

Believe me, &c. 

J. T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

London, May 14, 1820. 
MY DEAR GEORGE, 

I can assure you that I fully expected 
to hear from you within the space of a few days, 
and I am glad that your better disposition over- 
came the previous ungracious resolution of not 
writing soon because you had written a letter to 
Will long enough for us both, notwithstanding 



lor 

that you knew yourself to be over head and ears 
in debt to me. I beg therefore you will duly 
appreciate my condescension in returning you an 
answer so soon. I do not know, by the bye, 
(for it is fair to let you have both sides of the 
story) that you would have heard from me just 
yet, but that my regular and oppressive occupa- 
tion has been interrupted by a pitched battle with 
a violent hoarseness, which gives me an excuse 
for a little languor, and an opportunity of ex- 
changing the history of Spain for a tilt at your 
worship. Here goes — charge. What do you 
mean, you owlish fellow, by giving me such a 
dose of transcendental philosophy ? Have you 
heard from AIlsop with an inclosure from Cole- 
ridge? I cannot otherwise account for such a 
volume of smoke, unless, indeed, the devil has 
been with you, having great wrath, — though that 
is no reason why his wrath should extend to me 
also. Seriously, my mind being somewhat in a 
relaxed state, I cannot follow your reasoning, 
and can only say that I perfectly agree with your 
object and your conclusion. You resolve to be 
the happiest fellow in the world, a most mag- 
nanimous and proper resolution, and if I under- 
stand your arguments rightly, you are in a fair 
way of succeeding, provided you can get rid of 



108 

some favorite companions of yours ycleped 
blue devils, whose opposition you do not appear 
to have taken into account. You conclude that 
most of our evils are imaginary — true, in the 
abstract, but they are not the less evils, they 
have not less power; they are a very consider- 
able part of our existence, and they are not to 
be overcome by the mere knowledge that they 
are imaginary. Admitting that they are so, the 
opposing good must be so too, and if we can 
teach ourselves to conquer the one by indifference, 
we shall suffer apathy to steal the enjoyments of 
the other. Our nature, mixed as you describe 
it, was formed to receive the impressions of 
good and evil, and these are pretty equally dis- 
tributed. The poor are generally subject to 
what we call real evils, and their lot is described 
as one of suffering and shadow : but the rich 
have their proportion, and though they be mental 
or imaginary, they can inflict as keen an agony 
as the more external class : they have the power 
of torture and of death, and they are so inter- 
woven with our hearts, that it requires no incon- 
siderable struggle to subdue them, when duty 
requires us so to do. 

Time lightens the weight of evil, and de- 
minishes the shades of sorrow, but it is not good 



109 

for man that he should forget them altogether : 
this indeed is not within his reach ; he can neither 
determine to remember, nor to forget. In our 
world, the remembrances of sorrow mingle with 
the recollections of joy, and he who strives to 
shut them from his mind, does not make the best 
use of his experience. Fortitude is a valuable 
quality both in pleasure and pain, and he who so 
tempers its use, that it neither leans to stoical 
indifference on the one hand, nor to passionate 
weakness on the other, stands the fairest chance 
of being high on the ladder of happiness — its 
summit is not attainable on this side of the 
grave. 

To turn from this preaching, I cannot say 
with you, in similar circumstances, that what I 
am about to write will be in the sunshine, as un- 
fortunately the day is clouded; though be it 
known to you, that my present prospect includes 
a cottage, sundry fine trees and shrubs, and 
blue hills in the distance. — Read and wonder. 

I dare say your adventure at Mr. Peter 
Wright's was glorious, and particularly so as it 
came to the aid of your philosophy, in rendering 
you the happiest being alive : a very good be- 
ginning indeed, mine honorable friend. 

You believe that nothing would induce you 



110 

to spend another spring in London — very well ; 
—but you also take upon you to believe, that 
were I with you now, I should make a similar 
resolution. I grieve to contradict you, but upon 
my veracity I believe no such thing. I think 
you mistake altogether the principles on which 
my attachment to London is founded. You know 
me not insensible to the beauties of nature — I 
should despise myself if I were so — and no one 
can penetrate the deep and varied feelings which 
I experience in contemplating the beauty or the 
sublimity of nature's works : but the motives 
which lead me to prefer a residence in London, 
arise from a different, and in my judgment a still 
higher source. My friends are here; my attach- 
ments and my pursuits have been formed here ; 
my mind has a bent which cannot be so well 
gratified as in London; my disposition is not 
suited to solitude, and my enjoyments are social; 
and if these were taken from me, would moun- 
tains or trees recompense me for the loss of the 
society to whom my heart is attached, or supply 
the enjoyments I have been accustomed to ? I 
have neither profession, nor wealth, nor hope of 
settlement, to fill the great space of my mind, 
and render it indifferent to social feelings : my 
employments and tastes are only to be followed 



Ill 

and gratified here ; they derive their charm from 
the countenance and participation of my friends ; 
and miserable indeed should I be, if my leisure 
was accompanied by solitude, and no voice 
answered to mine, in the still hour when probably 
my only thoughts would be of sorrow for the 
days gone by. In age, perhaps, I may have to 
experience all this, and more than this ; but do 
not let me be sepulchred in youth, or deprived of 
the highest gratifications I am likely to receive, 
by a lone and secluded residence in the country. 

It is different with you; your youth was 
passed in the fields; your associations originated 
there; your heart links itself with the past; the 
memories of early days cling to your affections, 
and exercise only a just influence upon your 
hopes and feelings. 

****** 

expects me to go to him to-morrow 

evening, but this will not be possible, though I 
should not be surprised if it were to occasion a 
mighty explosion. There is a tendency in my 
mind to be afraid of this animal ; I am not at my 
ease with respect to his invitations ; he is mis- 
trustful and irritable, and if all these combustibles 
do not blow up soon, it is very odd. But he is 
worth putting together again, so you need not 



112 

be alarmed. I have not seen any of the Paulines 
since Monday, but I have no hesitation in adding 
their kind regards and remembrances, to the 
warm greetings of your very faithful friend. 

J. T. 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

London, May 16, 1820. 
MY DEAR GEORGE, 

I have to thank you, and with all the 
cordiality which your anxious friendship de- 
mands, for your kind inquiries after my health. 
It is true that I cannot answer them in quite so 
satisfactory a manner as we should both wish, 
for the complaint on my lungs has continued to 
torment me by its fluctuations during the whole 
of the week; until having exhausted the medical 
skill of the family, and the patience of myself and 
friends, I have appealed to a higher court, and 
could have replied to you yesterday, but waited 

for the judgment of Dr. P , who has just 

been here, and promises, that if I comply with 



113 

the legal forms, he will be enabled to pronounce 
sentence of banishment against my adversary in 
a few days. My lungs are sound, but loaded, 
and must be unloaded, as the man of physic 
saith. I hope, therefore, that you will not suffer 
any anxiety to prey upon your mind on my ac- 
count, as there is no ground for alarm, and the 
summer is fast approaching, with its more genial 
and more certain atmosphere. At present the 
weather is chilly and damp, and I am sorry to 
say of my country, that I am becoming more and 
more convinced of the danger of the English 
climate, especially in the spring, which generally 
does for me, what the severities and rains of 
winter frequently cannot effect. My application 

to Dr. P has something of the effect of a 

writ of certiorari, in the King's Bench, by put- 
ting an end to all disputes about jurisdiction, in- 
terlocutary differences, &c. for my very kind 
friends, in different parts of the metropolis, have 
varied so widely in their judgment of my case, 
that it has become highly necessary to take 
refuge under the wing of a superior tribunal. 
" You go out too little," says one : " you must 
really stay at home," says another : a third cries, 
" you eat, too much, why don't you live upon 
slops?" — while a fourth, insists that I want 



114 

nourishment, and that I live too low. You will 
easily see, that to please all these combatants is 
impossible ; but now I can set them at defiance, 
though I fear I shall be saddled with all the costs 
of suit. But to leave myself, and turn to an 
every-way brighter subject. I congratulate you 
upon the continued sunshine of your prospect in 
Gloucestershire, and you must pardon me, if the 
use of these metaphorical phrases has carried 
my ideas to the real sunshine and prospect of the 
country. I can fancy you, looking upon the 
fertile plains that extend to the horizon, with the 
Welch hills for their boundary, and regarding it 
all as your own estate — the property of your eye — 
your imagination — your memory — a possession 
in fee, held in free and common soccage. Can 
any thing be more barbarous than this jargon, so 
applied — away with it. 

I am charged with a fine twigging for your 
lordship's ears ; I dare say you do not want to 
be told from whom : Will came up to me the 
other night, " having great wrath," on account 
of a letter he had received from you, and which 
I must confess did seem to merit a little castiga- 
tion. But I believe you had better take it from 
himself, and " use it as ye may." 

I have a little story which I must tell you 



115 

because you may have more to do with it. You 
are to be informed, that on Saturday evening I 

was engaged to to meet T and a 

party. In the hope of being able to be there, it 
was not until Saturday that I wrote to acquaint 
him my health would not permit it, accompanied 
by very proper, and at the same time, sincere 
regrets at the circumstance. Well — last night 

comes T to St. Paul's, and tells me that he 

went to — about nine o'clock, and found 

nobody at home, nor any expectation of — — ? s 
return. Yesterday morning he received a long 
written apology, stating inter alia, that so many 
of his friends had sent excuses, that he concluded 

T also did not intend to come ; upon which 

most extraordinary assumption, he betakes him- 
self out, leaving word to detain T if he came, 

which message, unhappily, was not delivered. 

Now be it known unto you, that not one 
syllable have I heard from this lusus naturce, 
and I infer that he is in high dudgeon with 
me, for my non-appearance, while he takes no 
pains to inform himself of the real state of the 
case. I am determined, however, upon the first 
symptom of ill-blood, to show him that I am not 
to be distrusted with impunity. If he thinks my 
friendship of any value to him, he must endea- 



116 

vour to return it by confidence, and not by play- 
ng off airs which are only tolerable in childhood. 
I shall be cool but firm ; I shall carefully avoid 
every expression of unkindness ; but I have been 
too long accustomed to the warm and confiding 
hearts of my own chosen friends, to submit to 
the caprice of a man, who suffers himself to lose 
the advantages of friendship, by tormenting those 
whose society he wishes to cultivate. If he re- 
main silent, I shall take no notice of him, until 
you come, — like the angel of peace upon a 
warring world. 
And now — 

" Farewell, awhile to him and thee, 
My valued friend good night" 

I like to be as literal as possible. 

All your friends remember you, as you do 
us, and you know, my dear George, that I re- 
main, &c„ &c. 

J. T. 



117 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

May 31,1820, 
MY DEAR GEORGE, 

I repent me that I suffered you to 
take it for granted that I should see you to-day. 
The powers of heaven and earth (that is, the ele- 
ments, Dr. P — and my mother) conspire against 
me; the first threaten me if I sally forth; the 
second keeps me waiting ; and the third is gone 
out, so that I cannot have a proxy to appear for 
me. I have waited till the last moment for some 
favoring circumstance, but there is now no chance 
of my being with you. 

In these circumstances, the farewell greetings 
of your imprisoned friend must be confined to 
paper; and although my pen may not convey all 
the feelings of my heart upon the new prospects 
that open before you, I am well assured that you 
know how sincerely and earnestly I wish you all 
the blessings of health, prosperity, and contented 
enjoyment. I will not anticipate how long it 
may be ere we meet again; it may be sooner 
than we expect, not than we wish ; but that must 



118 

be left to fate. I trust I shall hear from you 
very soon, especially now, as Will is likely to 
be absent, and my reply shall be as prompt as 
my own circumstances will permit; but for some 
time you must be moderate in your expectations 
on this head, as you know my situation, and the 
necessity of relaxation. 

And now let me conjure you to dismiss your 
painful anxieties on my account : I have the 
satisfaction of feeling that I am better, though 
the process is slow; and if you will place a 
fitting confidence in me, you may rely on re- 
ceiving the truth in return. Fare-thee-well ! and 
take with thee the assurance of the unaltered re- 
gard and attachment of your faithful friend, 

J. T. 



TO MR. V. 

Monday morning, June 12, 1820. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

A letter from me on Monday is al- 
ways a bad sign ; not that in this case it implies 
that I am worse, as on the contrary, I feel my- 



119 

self much better : but the truth is, that Dr. P 

has put in an absolute caveat against my going 
out while this lamentable state of weather con- 
tinues. He came on Saturday, and railed at me 
for being out on Thursday. I told him I went 
in a coach; but he said, "coaches were bad 
things ; " to which I replied, that when one did 
not keep a carriage, what was to be done ? and 
thus ended that part of the argument. Hence 
we went on to existing circumstances : he de- 
sired me to breathe deeply, which having done 
once or twice to his entire satisfaction as well as 
my own, I said, J was certainly better in that 
respect: "Well, that is the respect; I do not 
care for your cough, or any thing else, that will 
continue some time longer; but your lungs are 
less loaded than they were, and you will do very 
well soon." He expressed an earnest wish for 
a change of weather, that I might get out, which 
he evidently thought would be of more service 
than any thing else : he seems bent on my going 
to Harlow, when all the circumstances permit, 
as he prefers a visit to some one, to any solitary 
excursion to the sea or elsewhere. With my 
kindest remembrances, believe me, &c. 

J.T. 



120 



TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 

London, June 27, 1820. 
1 have felt for some time, my dear 
fellow, the anxiety you would feel for a reply to 
your last letter, and I confess that I have every 
day expected your reproaches for the presumed 
unkindness ; but a number of causes, voluntary 
and involuntary, have hitherto prevented me. In 
the first place, I was anxious to give you the 
best account of myself; and as the return of hot 
weather was pronounced to be the only remedy 
for me, I chose to wait a little. Then, I hap- 
pened to be honored by a communication from 
the Bavarian minister, who sent me documents 
which I was obliged to attend to immediately. 
As to myself, I died last Saturday, from the 
heat, and am going about unburied, because the 
ground is too hot to hold me. The fact is, that 
the long-expected change was such a violent one, 
that although very beneficial to my lungs, it is 
so overpowering that it deprives me of all power 
of exertion. The folks here literally groan and 
sweat under a weary life ; and if it lasts much 



121 

longer, they will be all dead corpses ! ! As for 
me, I am off — that is, I am going to rusticate, 
and that to-morrow ; ergo, I shall not be able to 
write you a very long letter. I am going to 
Harlow, to abide with Miss H. and other rela- 
tives, to be nodded at by the trees, smiled upon 
by the waters, and kissed by the zephyrs ; (can't 
do without the zephyrs). Here I shall remain, I 
suppose, till quiet tires me, and like Dr. John- 
son, I long to be in Fleet Street again. But I 
dare say it will do much to recruit my strength, 
for this fierce embrace of Apollo is little better 
than a rape upon my virgin weakness : but it is 
time to have done ringing changes on this un- 
happy subject. 

I do not know when I have derived so much 
satisfaction as your letter imparted, as it related 
to yourself; your delightful situation, your high 
hopes, and present comforts. I do indeed, my 
dear George, most sincerely congratulate you 
upon all these, and I fervently hope nothing will 
intervene to cloud the sunshine of your pros- 
pect. 

By the bye, we were somewhat amused that 
your letter to Will was pitched in a much lower 
key. Will said you had not been to see Mrs. B. 
for a week; was that the case? Pray who is it 

G 



122 

that plays the harp? Will left town for the 
north the day after your letter arrived, so I must 
return for him, what you know you will receive, 
his heartfelt acknowledgments for your remem- 
brance of his birth-day, though you did persist in 
fixing it a day before it happened. 

You who know how long I have been ill, 
and what a confinement I have had, would be 
much amused if I could send you a correspon- 
dence that took place the other day between 
-— and myself: returning home on Saturday, 
I found a tremendous note, scarcely legible, hint- 
ing at sickness, but in the loosest and most ex- 
travagant terms, that he could neither live nor 
die, &c. &c. summoning my attendance, and 
wanting me to take the gallery of the House of 
Commons in my way ! this to an invalid ! ! I 
returned rather a prickly answer; which pro- 
duced a doleful epistle, setting forth that he had 
had an inflammation on his chest, accompanied 
by violent sickness, and that he should not be 
able to leave his room for two or three days. So 
after this I sat down on Sunday morning and 
wrote a very sympathetic reply, at the same time 
pointing out the impropriety of his language, and 
asking him why he could not write a plain tale 
at once ; I also promised to call upon him if pos- 



123 

sible. I sent this in the afternoon, when, would 
you believe it ? the fellow was gone out ! ! 
****** 
I believe if you write to me in about three 
weeks you will hit me, and I hope the second 
letter will be as joyous as the first. None of 
your blue devils for me. My mother desires her 
kind regards to you, and you well know that I 
am, most sincerely, 

your attached friend, 

J. T. 



POEMS. 



POEMS. 



ADDRESS TO WEALTH. 



Vain Wealth away ! I woo thee not,— 
For riches I'll ne'er change my lot : 
Of what avail's the joy you bring, 
Will 't keep the mind from sorrowing ? 
Will't heal the parent's riven heart, 
When from his offspring he must part ? 
Will it recall the fleeting breath, 
Arrest th' impending arm of death — 
Or will it check the widow's tears, 
Or dying sinner's guilty fears ? — 
If none of these — thou idle elf, 
(Who seem'st to feed upon thyself) 
I will not seek thy golden halls 
Where bliss decays, and pleasure palls, 



128 

Where gold can lose the power to please, 
And sleep, content, and tranquil ease 
With gentleness, and feelings kind, 
Are exiled from the loaded mind. 
Mischievous wight ! there's scarce a sin 
But from thy counsel doth begin : 
Thou causest man to ape the brute — 
When Avarice in his heart takes root, 
He kills, he spoils, he thirsts for prey, 
And mocking brutes, is worse than they : — 
For they do live by war and blood, 
But he, in careless idlest mood, 
Will take another's life, for gain 
Of that which gives him added pain. 
For thee, he murders fellow-man, 
For thee he binds the African, 
And, deaf to each heart-rending cry, 
For love of thee, puts Pity by — 
Straight bars the door, excludes the light, 
And shrouds himself in Pride's chill night- 
Affects to think his black-skin'd brother 
Could not be sprung from Eve our mother; 
For Europeans solely made 
And blessed with life — that they may trade ! 
See Wealth! the miseries that you cause ; — 
Justice and Nature's broken laws 



129 

On you for vengeance cry aloud ; — 
You spurn the hungry, feed the proud, 
And bring such evils in your train 
As make one wish you off again. 
Hence therefore, to the selfish crew 
Who toil, and starve, and live for you. 
But oh ! how sweet the golden mean, 
Affluence and Poverty between, — 
Enough to make a cheerful hearth, 
Where social comfort has its birth, 
And smiling happiness at home 
Forbids th' alluring wish to roam 
For pelf, or other fancied pleasure ; — 
Content's the only real treasure ! 



EXPLANATION 

OF THE PRECEDING ADDRESS. 



" How's this!" methinks I hear you say,- 
" Why against Wealth do you inveigh?" 
Reflect a little and you'll see 
That Wealth's not fond of poetry ; 

G5 



130 



And poets, since they cannot use it, 
Turn up their noses, and abuse it. — 
The grapes are sour — you understand— 
We spurn, because we can't command. 



THE FAIRIES. 

WRITTEN ON OCCASION OF LORD BYRON'S MARRIAGE. 



FIRST FAIRY. 

Fairy ! whither bends your speed ? 
Why spur you thus your elfin steed ? 

SECOND FAIRY. 

Oh, foolish sprite ! dost thou not know 
Why swiftly thus through air I go ? 
Hast thou not heard the joyful sound, 
So sweet to all on fairy ground, 
Which roused us from our rosy beds ?— 
It is that Albion's minstrel weds ! 
Soon as our captain, Oberon, knew, 
His bugle horn he quickly blew, 



131 

And summon'd round his fairies all 

To grace the merry festival. 

I heard in India where I tarried, 

The cry, " Lo! Britain's Bard is married ! 

As I was marking in a wood 

The track of wounded panther's blood, 

And, just as I the pard had found, 

The monarch's bugle 'gan to sound : 

Away I sped, and swifter went 

Than lightning's flash — my course I bent 

To where I met the royal court 

Discoursing of th' intended sport. 

Again I travel through the sky, 

To England's happy clime I fly, 

Whither our sovereigns now repair, 

To greet the bridegroom and the fair, 

And wish them happiness, — this done 

We elves shall feast with Oberon. 

Oh there will be such revelling 

When spirits dance and fairies sing, 

And all the troop their voices raise 

Shouting our much-loved poet's praise ; — 

For bards like him are seldom seen, 

Perchance some centuries between, 

And fairies are the poets' friends ; — 

A faithful band our monarch sends 



132 

To guard his steps from perilous harms, 
And aid him by their magic charms. 
Titania too attends the bride 
To watch her downy couch beside, 
To deck her hair, bring sweet perfume, 
And paint her cheek with freshen'd bloom. 
Such toils as these and such delights 
Employ and please our merry sprights. 
Away ! come, fairy, haste with me 
And share in this our revelry ! 



TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 



MY DEAR FRIEND, 

Having fortunately met with a great 
literary curiosity, and knowing your penchant for 
such morceaux, I have sent you a copy on the 
other side. This treasure consists of disjointed 
fragments of a MS. poem by a certain noble au- 
thor, with whose published works you are well 
acquainted. It is an ever-to-be-lamented cir- 
cumstance, that only so small a portion of the 
work should be brought to light. It appears to 
have been founded on some " historical fact " of 



133 

great interest, and I have no doubt that the 
question whether the poem was ever complete, 
or only in this half-finished state, will agitate the 
literary world as much as the controversy re- 
specting Ossian, or the Shakspearian forgeries. 
For my own part, I have no doubt of its being 
genuine, and it is my intention to give the frag- 
ments to the world as such, upon the best fools- 
cap, illustrated with engravings, &c. But more 
of this when I see you, ad interim, I am, &c. 

J. T. 

February 24, 1816. 



THE FIRE. 

A FRAGMENT OF A TRUMP STREET TALE. 

Know ye the land where the day-book and mea- 
sure, 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their 

clime — 
Where the thirst is unsated for profit and treasure, 
And honor is almost accounted a crime ? 
Know ye the street where shawl-makers reside, 
And oilmen and silkmen are swelling with pride, — 



134 

Where the smoke-bearing south wind oppressed 

with its fume, 
Waxes faint over Honey-Lane Market in bloom, — 
Where beef, veal, and mutton are fairest of meat, 
And the voice of the butcher is temptingly sweet, — 
Where the tints of the cheese shop and green-shop 

just by, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the mud of the kennel is deepest in dye,— 
Where cotton, and silk, and bandannas are fine, 
And all save the spirit of man is divine ? 
Tis the clime of Cheap Ward ! 'tis the land of 

Trump Street, 
Where nothing but Manchester fellows you meet — 
Oh ! hard as the counter, and loud as Bow-bell, 
Are the hearts which they bear and the lies which 

they tell ! 

It is the hour when shopmen come 
To shut the shops, with busy hum — 
It is the hour when every clerk 
Goes prowling forth, like owls at dark, 
And organs, flutes, and fiddles near, 
Make music to the merry ear. 
The streets a shower has lightly wet, 
And in the shops gas-lights are set,— 



135 

And every wholesale warehouse shut ; 

Safe for the night the goods are put ; — 

And in the air a fog so sweet 

(Its taste to Cockneys quite a treat) 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the lamps away. 

****** 
Who thund'ring knocks at Waddell's door 
With heavy hand and noisy roar, 
Which make all Lawrence Lane resound 
And bring a mob of people round ? 

Men — women — children — son and sire — 
Fishmongers — poulterers — butchers' boys — 
They come — 'tis but to add to noise — 
Poor Waddell's house is all on fire ! 
****** 
The engine pumps are working 
But heavily and slow, 
From parish engines jerking 
Streams of water to and fro. 
As the steam of a kettle 
Which cannot get out, 
But at length full of mettle 
Bolts straight from the spout, 
So did the fire — it stayed no longer, 
But by confinement waxing stronger, 



136 

It strove, it struggled, brook'd no more, 

And burst at once from out the door. 

It burnt the shutters, shawls, and shop, 

As though it never meant to stop. 

From every quarter engines run — 

The Hope — the Phoenix — Eagle — Sun — 

And troops of firemen coming fast, 

Like carrion crows to their repast : 

Firemen in red, and green, and blue, 

And coats of every other hue. 

Some guide the branch, and some hold the 
torches, 

While others rush in where the raging fire 
scorches ; 

They toil — they swear — but hark ! a shout ! — 

And a cry is raised, — and the firemen are praised, 

And darkness prevails where the bright beam had 
blazed, 

For why ? — 'tis past — the fire's put out !— 
****** 

And where was Waddell all this while ? 

Was he distant a rood or a mile ? 

Did he in pot-house, or play-house, or dwelling- 
house lurk, 

Unsuspecting, poor mortal, this horrible work ?— 
In truth I know not — but he came 
Just as the firemen quench'd the flame — 



137 

He stood — he saw — he stared — nor one step 

moved, 
From the half-roasted whittles and shawls that he 

loved, 
As he gazed on the remnants all blacken'd with 

smoke, 
Nor scarcely a stray single syllable spoke. 

****** 
Now night is knocked down by the day — 
The firemen are all gone away, 

And the door is partly mended : — 
None heed save idlers one or two, 
Who passing by just take a view — 
Thus the fire began and ended ! ! 



ENTHUSIA. 



On a lone rock which proudly reared its form, 
As heedless of the winter's fiercest storm, — 
Romantic — stranger to the senseless crowd, 
The din of cities, and the clamour loud, — 
There in her paradise sate fancy's child, 
Enthusia named— as fair, and free, and wild, 



138 

As that bright region which she call'd her own, 
Where mild and genial sunbeams ever shone, 
And transport dwelt — nor bird, nor tree, nor 

flower, 
But own'd her magic, joy-inspiring power. 
On couch of eglantine the nymph reclined, 
Her golden hair was floating in the wind, 
A smile upon her ruby lips was playing, 
Yet faint as that o'er infant slumbers straying, — 
Her azure eye — but oh ! who can express 
Its power, its eloquence, its loveliness ! — 
None, none can tell, save they alone who've felt, 
Such rays as coldest, hardest hearts would melt. 
I gazed in silence at the enchanting sight, 
My senses wrapt in unrestrain'd delight — 
The goddess saw, beheld the springing fire 
Which glowed within my breast ; — she took her 

lyre, 
And from the chords pour'd forth a maddening 

measure, 
A thrill too sweet to pain, too fierce to pleasure. 
My heart expands, — I start, I burn, I chill, — 
I rave, and turn to fly, yet listen still : — 
'Tis vain, I yield — my limbs refuse to move, 
In one short, all-expressive word, I love ! 



139 

Descend, fair maid, descend, 

Thy blest assistance lend, 
And all thy sweetest odours breathe 

Upon the knot I twine — 
Though I the rosy chaplet wreathe, 

The flowers are only thine. 
Inspire the song my soul would raise 
In votive strain to chaunt thy praise. 

'Tis thy celestial lyre 

Awakes the poet's fire, 
And makes his heart responsive bound ;— 

He strikes the silver shell, 
Enraptured nations catch the sound, 

And all his glories tell. 
While deathless honours crown his name 
To thee alone he owes his fame. 

The bard, inspired by thee, 

With sweetest minstrelsy 
Doth charm the ear, inflame the heart ; 

And pleasure's splendid beams 
The purest of delights impart, — 

A poet's golden dreams. 
He fancies joys Elysian given 
And in idea tastes a heaven ! 



140 

The youth who courts repose, 

Nor toil nor hardship knows, 
To thy resistless power must yield: — 

He hears his country's call, 
And starts a hero to the field, 

To vanquish or to fall. 
He rushes on, nor danger heeds, 
Or conquers, or with honour bleeds : 

And should the tyrant Death 

Demand his fleeting breath, 
Thou still art there, to cheer his soul 

With thoughts that o'er his grave 
The tears of much-loved friends should roll, 

And Victory's banner wave. 
His memory lives in sculptur'd story- 
He sinks amidst a blaze of glory ! 

But hark ! a gentler strain, 

Though yielding fiercest pain — 
Around the heart it softly steals 

With step as light as air — 
A glow the bosom faintly feels 

And scarcely deems it there : 
Till, scorning thus to be repressed, 
The clouds dispel — Love stands confessed ! 



141 

Be thine the praise dear Maid ! 

For to thy powerful aid 
Ungrateful Love owes half his charm ; — 

What were his burning kisses, 
The looks, the sighs that keep him warm, 

And all his boasted blisses — 
Wert thou not near to fan desire, 
And cheer him with thy genial fire ? 

The poet feels no thrill, 

The soldier's ardour's chill, 
Compared with those keen pangs that move 

The heart that owns thy sway ; 
When thou dost join thy kinsman Love 

And shed a double ray. 
Sweet visions dance before the sight, 
The senses madden with delight. 

Hence ! frozen Wisdom, hence ! 

I hate thy sage pretence 
That seeks to check th' aspiring mind 

With Prudence' heavy chain — 
Away ! give counsel to the wind 

Teach calmness to the main. 
No — uncontroll'd let Fancy stray 
Nor idly spurn youth's sunny day. 



142 

Haste then Enthusia dear ! 

With thee I banish fear : 
Though Wisdom with her crew assail 

And angry grey-beards frown — 
Though Ignorance laugh, and Prudence rail, 

Or Pride with scorn look down ; 
If these united threaten dire alarms, 
I'll cling to thee, and perish in thine arms ! 



TO MY FRIEND WILLIAM, 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 



Too oft the Muse, in heartless strain, pretends 
To extol the matchless virtues of her friends, 
Lab'ring their qualities and fame to raise, 
And load the verse with canting prayer and 

praise. 
I will not mock thee — though thy natal day 
Demands the tribute of warm Friendship's lay ; — 
Yet not to thee, the lines attuned by art, 
Which please cold judgment but ne'er touch thee 

heart : 



143 

Oh no ! free as the tear in Pity's eye — 
Spontaneous as the drooping lover's sigh 

Be mine no more — my pen shall not essay 

In powerless words my feelings to convey — 
Expect no lengthen'd song with flattery fraught, 
But in my silence read the raptured thought \ 

June 18, 1816. 
Pardon! pardon! — I could not help it. If 
the bare idea of a Birth-day Ode to you, sink me 
in your estimation — throw it on the fire, and for- 
get it was written by, 

your friend, 

- James Tyson. 



ON LEAVING ENGLAND FOR 
FRANCE. 



Farewell ! oh my country, dear land of my birth! 

Though pleasure now tempts me to leave thee 

awhile, 

Yet hear me pronounce, oh thou jewel of earth ! 

I shall quit thee with grief, and return with a 

smile. 



144 

Where shall I find such a land as mine own — 
Where seek for the blessings that Britain 
contains — 

Where else may the heart of a brother be known,— 
In what other clime is it, Liberty reigns ? 

Farewell to the ever-loved home of my youth ! 

The roof of protection that shelter'dme long — 
Where I learn'd to admire the bright pages of 
truth, 
And amuse the dull hour with the pleasures 
of song. 
Farewell to my friends ! — yet mistake not the 
name — 
Not to those who can smile while their bo- 
soms are chill ; 
But to those who are glowing with friendship's 
pure flame, 
And though absent and far, will remember 
me still. 

And when I return — may the days that were past 

In my wanderings, warn me no longer to roam, 

And the scenes I have view'd only bind me more 

fast 

To rry own native country, my friends, and 

my home ! 



145 

Kind heaven ! in mercy propitiously smile 

On my soul's earnest prayer, as I quit the 
dear shore, — 
May the sun of prosperity shine on this isle, 
And the friends of my heart be more blest 
than before ! 

August, 1816. 



MIDNIGHT. 



Hark to the bell of the midnight hour, 
As slowly it tolls from yonder tower ; — 
'Tis the knell of a day that's eternally past, 
In sorrow too slow, and in pleasure too fast ; — 
By the many unheeded — important to few 
Save the guilty, the trifling, the trafficking crew, 
Who breathe out their moments in dark discon- 
tent, 
As they're wasted in care, or in folly mispent. 
Oh ! how few greet with joy the return of the sun, 
Or the pillow of night when his journey is done ; — 
And how few lend a charm to the graces of day 
By the light of their minds — the warm soul-giving 
ray 

H 



146 

Which illumines each minute, enlivens the hour, 
"With the magic of wisdom, and virtue's bland 

power ; — 
To these, and these only, the blessing is given 
To enjoy the delights that conduct them to heaven. 

This is an hour of deepest thought, 
With every graver feeling fraught, 
With every hue that leads the mind 
To meditate on human-kind; 
The door is closed on busy man, — 
My soul prepares his deeds to scan, 
And picture with creative power 
The varied scenes of this dull hour. 

Oh ! midnight is a fearful, horrid time, 

Whose gloom becomes the friend of every crime ; 

Murder starts forth, and reckless aims the blow 

That strikes the victim of his fury low : — 

Rapine is vigilant to mark his prey, 

Hurries to action, and accurses day : — 

Man 'gainst his fellow-man works deeds of hell, 

That shudd'ring history almost dreads to tell. 

Again — see, crawling through the lonely street, 

The houseless, friendless wanderer we meet ; — 

But wretchedness is silent, — what avails 

The piteous moan which no kind ear assails; — 



147 

When heartless Pride and Wealth are wrapped 

in sleep, 
And day-worn Pity fain would cease to weep, — 
All Nature's still, as to recruit her breath, 
Save Guilt, and Folly, and the arm of Death ! 

Ha ! yonder is the sick man's bed : — 
E'en at this hour he hurries to the grave, — 
While weeping friends support his head, 
And vainly urge the ardent prayer to save. 
Then strikes the bell with its sad cheerless sound, 
And deeper gloom imparts to all around. 
He may not hear that bell again, 
Ere then he may be freed from pain, — 
His life become a faded dream, 
A thing of memory, a vanished gleam ! 
While Midnight's tongue ekes out the tedious tale, 
Death wakes the widow's cry, the orphan's wail, 
Sends thousand victims to the insatiate tomb, 
Age in its hoariness, and youth in bloom ! 

There sits the convict in his cell, 
Starting as sounds that fatal bell, 
For it heralds the day of his fate ; — 
He must flee from the joys and the evils of life, 
He must hasten away from these regions of strife, 
With the curse of Repentance too late ! 



148 

That sound has disturbed the calm current of 

sorrow ; — 
Delusion has fled with her dreams of to-morrow — 
For him there is none — this day is his last ; — 
Oh ! pray that his sufferings may quickly be past, — 
That the mercy of heaven may illume his sad end, 
And his soul rise to God as a pardoning friend ! 

And there are other scenes of woe, 
The soul appall'd would shun to know : — 
Ah ! look upon Poverty's heart-broken child, 
With a brain of hot madness, and countenance 

wild; 
How wan is his aspect, how wither'd his form, 
As a tree in its age that is rent by the storm. 
He had been wealthy in the days gone by, 

And gaiety sat on his brow : 
But the smiles are all faded, the tear dims 
his eye, 
For misery possesses him now. 
His home is the haunt of sharp famine and care, 
His soul is the seat of a gnawing despair, 
And where shall he look for relief? 
He had friends — but they fled with his fortunes 

and pride ; — 
He had hopes — but in anguish they wither'd and 
died; — 
No solace is left for his grief. 



149 

In wand'rings too fruitless he wears out the day, 
And the night brings no comfort to wish for its 

stay;— 
Even sleep, that kind friend, has abandoned his 

bed, 
And in want and in torture he lays down his head ; 
While the cries of his children still sound in his 

ears, 
And Remembrance afflicts with her record of 

years . 

Oh! think of the mariner wreck'd on the 

ocean ! 
Oh ! think of the penitent sinner's emotion ! 
Or the traveller lost on the dreary wild — 
Or war's devastation where happiness smiled. 
All these, in the gloomy meridian of night, 
Become terrors redoubled from absence of 

light; 
For the day is a soother of terror and grief, 
And evils seem less, tho' they gain not relief. 

In the circle of fashion the bell is unheard, 
Where mirth is triumphant, and reason deferr'd ; 
Where Vice with her mask, and broad Folly 

unveil'd, 
Keep the swift march of Time from their vot'ries 

conceal'd.— 



150 

Are there none then at rest in this harassing 

world ? 
And are all into folly or wretchedness hurFd? — 

Oh, there are many in the arms of sleep, 
Yet few, alas! who health and freshness 

reap : — 
It is not the sleeper who's haunted by care, 

For he dreams of the troubles of life ; — 
Dark visions of sorrow and tumult are there, 

And the passionate ragings of strife. 

'Tis enjoyment to none but the good and the wise, 
Who in peace spend their days, and in peace 

close their eyes : — 
They encounter no miseries to anguish the breast, 
And calmness bends over the couch of their rest. 
They have no midnight— -light is on their souls, 
And time in one unvarying current rolls. 
Wisdom is there, — Reflection with her glass, 
Who fears not to review the hours that pass, — 
Hope with her torch, — and Virtue with her rays, — 
That darkness shrinks before th' effulgent blaze. 

December, 1816. 



151 



STARLIGHT. 



Know ye an hour of pleasure and of rest, 
When calmness reigns within the yielding breast?- 
Know ye a scene in fairest beauty smiling, 
The bosom of its rankling cares beguiling ?— 
'Tis when the stars are bright in heaven, 
Gathering at the call of even ; 
And when the crowd's harsh din is o'er, 
And worldlings can annoy no more ; — 
When sprites and fairies breathe the spell. 
By storied oak or haunted well ; — 
All sound is hushed — save when the breeze 
Is softly sighing through the trees, — 
Or some lone votary of the hour 
Brushes by the dew-clad flower. 
And gently glides the placid stream, 
Gemm'd with many a starry beam, 
Which bending down with looks of love, 
Appear like heralds from above, 
To win the unresisting soul 
From passion's or from care's control. 



152 

See how they shine with the mildness of peace, 
As warning the mind's busy tumult to cease : — 
Where is the being that looks on the sky, 
When its jewels of beauty are sparkling on high, 
Who feels not his heart is entranced by the sight. 
His emotions more calm, and his troubles more 

light? 
Where is the breast not all tainted by crime, 
That is not refreshed in this heart-soothing time ? — 
The soul of devotion its full tide will pour, 
In silence survey, and in silence adore. 
If religion hath cheered us and warmed with its 

rays, 
And our bosoms have glowed with the ardour of 

praise, 
Be these tranquil moments to holiness given, 
When our thoughts rise on wings of devotion to 

heaven. 
Now, when the world and the passions are still, 
With the sky for our dome, and our temple the hill, 
Let us kneel in the sight of those orbs as they roll, 
And acknowledge the God who created the whole ! 

'Tis contemplation's hour of joy, 

No cares of busy men annoy, 

Peace is on earth and beauty in the sky : 

The darling idols of the sage's eye, 



153 

In all their purest lustre shining, 
In all their antic forms entwining, 
Invite the mind, in wonder lost, 
To gaze upon their myriad host; — 
Enchanted by their loveliness, 
Confessing mortal's nothingness. 
Say can there be a time more sweet, 
Or more for meditation meet ? 
Silence is mistress of the scene, 
And binds it with her spell serene. 

Or if a sound disturb the heavenly calm, 

And break the magic of this silent charm, 
Let it be sound of melody ; — 
Music such as soothes the heart, 
Impressive and devoid of art, 
Sweet in its simplicity. 

But soft and mild as the zephyr's light sigh, 
Lest passion should start at the sound, 

Dispel all its charms with the fire of his eye, 
Destroy all its peace with his bound. 
Oh ! let it be a lover's strain, 
Not doom'd to feel a lover's pain — 
Of one whose passion is not crost, 
Whose hopes and trials are not lost — 
Of one who steals an hour from rest 
To feed the rapture of his breast — 

H 5 



154 

Who roves to gaze upon the sky, 
Wishing that his love were nigh, 
Dreaming of her constancy. 

Hark ! the note, the winds are winging ! 

Hark ! the lover's hymn is singing ! 

HYMN. 

Sylphs, who dwell in stars above, 

Lend your aid to guard my love — 

Spirits of the starry sphere, 

To protect be ever near. 

If she wander by your light, 

Shine in fairest splendor bright ; 

If she sleep beneath your ray, 

Keep intruding elves away ; 

As your nightly course ye roll, 

Shed your peace upon her soul : 

Hear me ye that wait on even, 

Lights of earth, and eyes of heaven ; — 

Hear me heralds of the dawn, 

Xe who wake the drowsy morn ; — 

Hear me all ye stars above, 

And frown not on the prayer of love ! 

How dear to memory is the starlight hour ! 
For then, alone, within her magic bower 



155 

She dreams of the pleasures and ills that are fled, 
Recalls the past year, and awakens the dead ; 
Now smiling o'er joys that had vanished before, — 
Now checking the tear for the friend who's no 
more. 

Oh ! it is sweet to wander far 

Beneath the ray of evening star ; 

To seek the darkly-tinted shades, 

And stray through quiet, verdant glades, 

And silent, undisturbed, review 

The moments that too quickly flew ; 

To grieve o'er evils that are past, 

And mourn the joys that could not last ; 

Then from the scene to woo relief, 

And shed a halo o'er our grief, 

Till warned by yon bright orbs of peace, 

We bid regret and sorrow cease ; 

Think of the past as of a dream — 

The image of the lightning's beam 

Which shines but hurts not with its gleam. 

Now poesy with ardor fired, 
With every purer thought inspired, — 
Her wild harp strikes and breathes a lay 
Responsive to the starlight ray; 
Enchanting as the strain which angels sing — 
Sweet as the odours from a seraph's wing ! 



156 

When the fire of the muse in its blaze is uneheck'd, 
When the hues of the hour on the fancy reflect, 
When the thoughts and the heavens are glowing 

and bright, 
These are the moments of minstrels' delight ! 

If ye, spirits of the blest, 

In those orbs enjoy your rest — 

If in transport there ye dwell 

As the ardent poets tell — 

From your happier climes on high 

Deign to cast a pitying eye 

Upon a world with error filFd, 

Which by sin and pride is chill'd. 

I will roam abroad at night 

To catch the lustre of your light, 

And as one more fair I see 

Deem a spirit looks on me : 

In my breast this thought I'll cherish, 

There to live when others perish ; — 

This shall raise my sinking soul, 

Free it from despair's control ; — 

This shall chase the gloom of sorrow, 

And cheer the path of life to-morrow ! 

January, 1817. 



157 



THE EIGHTEENTH OF JUNE, 

THE BIRTH-DAY OF HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 



" Hollo, James Tyson ! tis the eighteenth of 

June"— 
Dear ! so it is, and my harp's out of tune ; 
" Then get it mended :" — Can't be done in time — 
" No ! — what, not to string a single rhyme V 
Not one — consider, common stuff won't do 
Eor him who's born on the day of Waterloo : 
I'll put it off like other royal folks — 
" Come, sir, don't waste your time in idle jokes, 
To work :" — I say my muse has caught a cold, 
And, wife-like, won't always do as she is told : — 
Well, well, it can't be help'd — I could but say 
I wish thee health this many a day — 
That happiness may ever greet thee, 
And joy run forward with the year to meet thee, 
With sundry comforts that I will not mention, 
Though claiming equally thy best attention : — 
Since this is all I have to tell, 
Why— any other day will do as well. 

June 18, 1817. 



158 



REPENTANCE. 



All hail, Repentance ! melancholy maid ! 
Gifted alike to soothe or to upbraid, — 
Thou child of good and ill, that hast thy birth 
In light celestial, and in shades of earth, — 
Now soft as sounds by zephyrs given, 

Or striking deeply as a knell, — 
Now cheering with a ray from heaven, 

Or frighting with a glare from hell. 
; Tis thou who bid'st the erring soul 
To burst from guilt's abhorr'd control, 
In tears retrace the path she trod, 
And kneel again before her God ! 
When the trembling sinner dies, 
And pours his anguish in his cries, 
Thou art there to soothe his woe 
And prompt the conscious tear to flow — 
Like a seraph in pity sent down from above, 
To whisper the promise of pardon and love. 
Oh ! consoling and sweet is the pledge of thy 

power, 
Shining on as the sun in a fast-falling shower. 



159 

Yet thou hast a darker form, 
Raging like a midnight storm, 
When the only light appearing, 
Is the dreadful flash that's searing, — 
The only voice that meets the ear, 
Speaks in the thunder's voice of fear. 
Such thy horrors, fiend Remorse, 
To him who lives beneath thy curse — 
A demon to scourge, and a hell to consume, 
As a mirror to shew the lost victim his doom ; 
Now haunting his sleep, and now stalking by day, 
From his thought and his memory never away ; 
Urging on to self-slaughter, yet holding him fast 
By dread of the future for sin of the past. 
Would that with earlier influence o'er the mind 
In gentler semblance thou couldst school man- 
kind, 
Checking the soul with a warning emotion, 
Ere it venture too far upon guilt's stormy ocean, 
Melting the heart with the warm gush of sorrow, 
And recording the promise of virtue to-morrow ! 

August, 1817. 



160 



SUNSET. 



There's not an hour that onward rolls. 

But speaks a warning to our souls, — 

There's not a change in earth or heaven, 

But on it truths of God are graven. 

In every hour Religion finds a voice, 

In every moment bids the heart rejoice, 

Stealing upon us with the morning light, 

Confessed amid the wonders of the night, 

To each at the time when the harmoniz'd feelings 

Are glowing with ardor to embrace her reveal- 

ings ;— 
To one when the gentle and earliest ray 
Springs up from its clouds, blushes on into day ; — 
To others at noon, or the sun's bright declining, 
Or the hour when the stars are resplendently 

shining ; — 
All in their seasons combining to raise 
The soul to its Maker, in rapture of praise. 



161 

There was a scene which late mine eyes be- 
held, 
When all the splendour of the sky unveil'd, 
Shone like a vision of ethereal birth, 
A dream of heaven enjoyed by sons of earth. 
The gorgeous Sun was sinking to his rest, 
And shed effulgence o'er the tinted west, — 
A monarch dying in his glory's blaze, 
Blessing the world with his departing rays, 
He sank — and o'er the heavens a mantle threw, 
Illumed with every varied, lovely hue- - 
Who shall describe them? fleeting, changing, 

bright, 
As though in sport they mocked the eager sight, — 
Now all the richness of a golden dome, 
Now crimson'd with the modest rose's bloom, 
Like young Devotion wafted from above, 
Or the mute language of her kindred Love. 
Here in the azure antic clouds were wreathing, 
Responsive to the zephyrs o'er them breathing, 
As sylphs of air, each in his magic bower, 
Had joined the sacred worship of the hour. 
In placid lustre rose the evening star, 
Like timid virgin gazing from afar, 
As mild and modest as the heart should be, 
Whose fairest jewel is humility. 



162 

Farther, the gentle mistress of the sky, 
The full-orb'd Moon had now ascended high 
With pensive majesty, and in her train 
Night's dusky ministers t' assert her reign. 
On earth was silence — tree, and mead, and hill 
Paid their mute homage, and in awe were still, — 
Art hath no seeming, Nature no delight 
So sweetly pure and so divinely bright, 
For heaven and earth their every hue combined 
To stamp their loveliness upon the mind : 
It was a temple and a worship — there 
Th'Alniighty's works did seem to meet in prayer;— 
A holy feeling reigned throughout the whole ; 
The world was bow'd — Religion gave the soul, 
Breath'd in the star, the cloud, the tree, the sod, 
As Nature's aspiration to her God ! 
It was her evening hymn — a silent service given 
From fleeting time to the eternal Lord of heaven ! 

Ye who have grovelled in Sin's mazy road, 
Nor ever on Him one pure thought have bestowed; 
Who have seen but have felt not the heavenly 

rays 
That in beauty are teaching the bosom to praise ;— 
Oh ! look upon this, and in penitence bend 
To the Spirit that made it, your Father and 
Friend ; 



163 

See the pledge of His goodness, — be guilty no 

more, 
But instructed and chasten'd, bow down and 

adore. 
Ye who're confin'd by dark Bigotry's chain, 
And long in her cold narrow prison have lain, 
Who have dreamed that Salvation was granted 

to few, 
That Eternity's blessings were only for you, 
Who would strive to usurp the wide region of 

bliss, 
Arise, oh ye hypocrites ! look upon this ! 
Wake Charity's thrill in your breasts as you scan, 
And in Nature's bright page read His mercy to 

man! 
The soul that acknowledges Virtue's sweet power, 
Resembles the hues of this fair lovely hour — 
Gliding onward in peace, as the sun to the west, 
As calmly and brightly awaiting its rest. 
When life's fleeting joys are gone down with its 

day, 
The moonlight of virtue diffuses its ray, — ; 
Religion sheds o'er it the glow of the even, 
And wafts it on Hope's balmy zephyrs to heaven ! 

September, 1817. 



164 



LINES, 

WRITTEN IN THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF HIS FRIEND 
CATHARINE. 



A FRAGRANT wreath is here entwined, 

Of many a beauteous flower combined ; 

The blushing rose for joyous youth — 

The lily for the soul of truth — 

The cypress for the pensive heart — 

The pansy pierced with Cupid's dart — 

With bays and laurel woven among 

For sons of battle and of song. 

And thou whose hand hath culled each flower, 

May joy attend thee every hour, 

Around thee breathe as rich perfume, 

And flourish with unfading bloom, 

As lovely as the " garden queen," 

And lasting as the evergreen : 

May these be emblems of thy happy lot, 

Yet add one flow'ret more — Forget me not ! 

October, 1817. 



161 



TO MEMORY. 



Many the bards, and sweet the lays 

Aspiring to rehearse thy praise, 

And grateful bless the power divine 

That can each wandering thought confine, 

And long-past years recall to view 

With image bright and record true, 

Rekindle Pleasure's ray again 

To sooth the ills of present pain, — 

A friend in every changing mood, 

A minister of truth and good ! 

Whate'er of joy we feel and know 

To Memory's friendly aid we owe, — 

The triumphs of each child of song 

By thee are given, to thee belong. 

I sing not of thy wide domain, 

The varied wonders of thy reign, 

The mighty flood that ever rolls 

With force resistless on our souls ; 

The wealth thou pour'st from History's store, 

From Wisdom's volume, Learning's lore ; 



166 

To others be that task resigned, — 

While I, to humbler strain confined. 

In votive numbers will confess 

'Tis thine to teach, to sooth, to bless — 

To add a charm where Pleasure lives, 

And heal the wound that Anguish gives. 

There are visions that Hope and warm Fancy 

create, 
" Bright fictions" as those which the poets relate ; 
More gorgeous, more varied than thine they may 

be, 
But they shed not the rapture that's yielded by 

thee: 
Hope's gay illusions may gladden awhile, 
But their promise is false as the flatterer's smile— 
They may crowd on our youth, but like traitors 

recede 
When our age of their presence and comfort hath 

need; 
They fly from our grasp, and too often when gone, 
Only leave us more cheerless, more wretched, and 

lone ; — 
They may dazzle a moment, but when they depart, 
They bequeath us no token, no print on the 

heart ; — 
While thou in our bosoms art ever enshrined, 
And thy joys with the joys of all ages entwined; 



167 

The heart thy pavilion, thy favorite cell, 
Where in peaceful seclusion thou lovest to dwell. 

Oh yes ! Imagination's plastic power 
May cheer the vacant or the gloomy hour, 
With art creative worlds of wonder raise, 
And fill the mind with Fancy's dazzling blaze ; — 
But her dreams are no more than the gleams on 

the lake, 
Brilliant, but cold — which- a ripple may break : — 
While thine in all seasons, all hours, are a charm, 
Constant as sunlight, as genial and warm. 
In our age when the world's best enjoyments are 

gone, 
And we stand like a time-decayed ruin alone, — 
When the scenes of gay youth, and of former 

delight, 
Come over the soul like soft music at night, — 
How sweet to recall the bright days that are fled, 
And to fill the dull blank with the forms of the 

dead! 
As in Winter when Nature seems weeping for 

grief 
That her blossoms are faded, her glories so brief,— 
With no flow'ret to charm us, no fragrance that 

breathes, 
Save the roseleaf that pityingSummer bequeaths, — 



168 



So joyless would be the dark winter of age, 
Were it not for the tints that still glow on thy 



page ! 



There are pleasures, the bosom can never for- 
get, 
Though recorded as " by-gones" will play round 

us yet, — 
'Tis a voice we have heard, or a face we have 

seen, 
The likeness, the shadow of things that have 

been,— 
They are spirits that glide from the tomb of the 

past, 
With a torch to illume, and a beacon-ray cast 
On the mariner ploughing the dark sea of life, 
To cheer and preserve 'mid the elements' strife — 
To calm his rack'd mind, and present him a form 
That shall smile from the cloud, and speak peace 

to the storm ; 
Thy visions are with us when Pleasure's lamp 

burns, 
Like a friend of the heart who from travel re- 
turns, — 
They sit at our board, they partake of our cheer, 
Give a zest to each joy, make each moment more 
dear — 



169 

While in sorrow, the thoughts of our happier years 
Haste to banish our sighs and beguile us from 

tears — 
As the sun when he sinks to his western sea- 
shroud, 
Tips with crimson and gold the dark edge of the 

cloud, 
And dispenses a milder, a kindlier ray, 
Than when robed in the glorious brightness of day. 

But not to this world dost thou fetter the mind, 
Nor is to Time's follies thy magic conhVd ; — 
More sublime is thy course, more extended thy 

scope 
As thou minglest thy strains with the music of 

Hope — 
And the promise of joy in the life that's to be, 
Comes blended with notes that are chaunted by 

thee. 
Mortals we are — and as mortals we feel — 
And Eternity sure will forgive, if we steal 
From the lights of the past a few radiant beams, 
To adorn the dark future — and colour our dreams 
With the hues that on earth were enchantingly 

bright, 
And awoke in our bosoms the thrill of delight ; 

I 



170 

The roses of youth and the sweet flower of Love 
May enwreath with the amaranth garland above, 
Since we know that the soul's purest blisses are 

given 
But as shadows prophetic of raptures in heaven ! 

December 31, 1817. 



TO THE NEWSPAPERS, 

ON QUITTING A SHORT-LIVED MANAGEMENT OF A 
WEEKLY JOURNAL. 



Farewell ! disturbers of the world's repose, 
Records of human crimes and human woes, 
Dull traffickers in falsehoods — basely sold 
Prom basest motive, the rank lust of gold ; — 
Infectious Lazarets, whence guilt and pain 
Are breathed in poisons to the world again ; 
Where Vice stalks boldly under Virtue's seal, 
Giving more wounds than Virtue ere can heal ; 
Where brainless witlings pour the maiden rhyme ; 
Where saintly cant precedes defence of crime ; 



171 

Where party rage in puerile malice vents 
Its deadliest hate on Britain's ornaments ; 
Where every tyrant finds a ready friend 
The secret dagger and the mask to lend : — 
Folly's chief ministers, — false guides of youth — 
Open to all but honesty and truth — 
Foul weeds of darkness, hating light and good, 
That bloom in war, and thrive on human blood. 
Yet spare the lash, and own, — that e'en to you 
Some hard-wrung tribute of compassion's due : 
Who but laments, when on your bosom prest, 
Glares the deep brand of Canning's demon jest ; — 
Doom'd to the dulness of Saint Stephen's school, 
To screen a villain, or extol a fool ; 
Echo each whisper of your country's shame, 
Or spread contagion with a Stewart's name : — 
Begone — ye phantoms of a Stygian shore — 
Begone — invade my study's peace no more ! 

Henceforth, I shall pursue my noiseless rhymes 
Unfretted by the discord of the Times ; 
No Herald now, but the bright one that brings 
The sparkling goblet from Pierian springs ; 
No Sun that libels the great orb of light, 
Stealing his name to hide the scars of night, 
That smiles complacent on each hellish deed, 
And shines more brightly if a patriot bleed; 



172 

No Sun but he of glorious skies — no Star 
But those which view man's sorrows from afar, 
And from their mansions in the expanse above 
Look down on all with pity and with love. 
The Globe may roll ; — the follies of the World 
And babbling Chronicles shall hence be 

hurl'd ;— 
All — but Leigh Hunt — and he alone shall stay, 
Who loves the freshness of the summer day, 
Who twines the daisy with the thorns of life, 
And in the greenwood-shade forgets its strife, 
With soul uprising on the breeze's wings 
Beyond the crust and bane of earthly things. 

Farewell ! but not for ever — no — the hour 
May come when I shall yet invoke the power 
That wakes in patriot breasts the ardent glow, 
When Freedom mourns, and Tyrants strike the 

blow. 
I am not one who can look tamely on 
When deeds of selfish tyranny are done, 
That shed disgrace upon my country's name,, 
And blot the brightest records of her fame : — > 
Then, shall my spirit like the eaglet soar, 
And Liberty shall find one champion more ! 

ApriJ, 1818. 



173 



MUSIC. 



Oh Music! sweetest, best of human joys , 
The soul's pure luxury that never cloys, 
The feast of intellect, without a stain 
The eye of Memory can review with pain ; — - 
The world has pleasures which with eager haste 
Its senseless vot'ries rush in crowds to taste ; — 
Thine are the secret revels of the soul, 
A soft indulgence fearing no controul, 
A native bliss which there alone has birth, 
ITnmingled with the baser joys of earth ! 
Hail to thee, spirit of the mystic thrall ! 
Who oft as summon'd leav'st thy airy hall, 
From low and worldly things to raise mankind, 
And share thy riches with a mortal mind. 
Queen of the varied spells, within whose scope 
Lie past remembrances and future hope, — 
Friend of the melancholy hour art thou, 
A radiance shed upon the clouded brow, 
A passing sunbeam on a winter's day 
That smiles upon us with too transient ray. 



174 

Thy foe is mine — I cannot willingly 

With that dark spirit hold community, 

For o'er him Discord sure hath passed her hand, 

Or dull Indifference waved her leaden wand. 

There is no child of love or verse but owns 

The potent magic of thy thrilling tones ; 

It is an eloquence of every clime, 

Young in all ages, and defying time, 

Born with Creation in her earliest hour, 

The seal and symbol of her Maker's power. 

Enchantress ! I have heard thee on the hill, 
Waking within emotion's deepest thrill, 
As wafted by the fav'ring zephyrs near, 
Thy sounds have stolen upon the raptured ear, 
So calmly sweet, as angel-forms unseen 
Were hymning in the distant sky serene, 
And wand'ring winds which soared aloft to heaven 
The strains celestial to the world had given ! 
And I have heard thee when the swelling cry 
Hath loud proclaimed a nation's victory, — 
When thy glad notes a nation's joy have breath'd 
For glories won, and newer laurels wreath'd, 
When every heart by maddening impulse fired 
Hath own'd the feeling that the sounds inspired, 
And thousand voices their response have sent 
In shouts of rapture to the firmament. 



175 

Yet, gentle spirit, wherefore lend the strain 
When hapless mortals bleed for tyrants' gain ? — 
Why art thou heard upon the field of blood 
Where Discord rages in her angriest mood, 
Where all thy loudest peals prevail alone 
To drown the warrior's faint and dying groan — 
Paying the homage of thy flatt'ring breath 
To war and spoil, to tyrants and to death ? 
Yet stay — thou art pardon'd — I will not upbraid, 
Since Freedom hath oft-time rejoiced in thine 

aid — 
Thou hast marched by her side, thou hast 

strengthen'd her arm, 
And tyrants have fled from the power of thy 

charm ; 
Even empires with silence and trembling have 

hung 
On the accents the children of Freedom have 

sung — 
And never while Liberty's flag is unfurl'd 
Andherlife-givingblessings are dear to the world, 
May the sons of her hope be uncheer'd by the song 
That to vengeance and glory will lead them 

along : — - 
The gentlest, the fairest have gone to the field, 
And for Liberty caught up the spear and the 

shield, 



176 

With the helmet of war they have shaded their 

brow, 
They have shared in the battle— and why should'st 

not thou ? 
And shall we chide the spirit-stirring power 
That cheers the warrior in the battle-hour; 
That wins his soul from thoughts with anguish 

rife, 
And of its terrors half despoils the strife ? 
If men will war — if nations will not cease 
To violate the laws of heaven and peace ; 
If they will doom their children's blood to flow, 
Nor cast one thought upon the bitter woe, — 
The thousand deaths — the agonies that live 
In wounded hearts far worse than death can 

give i— 
Still be thou there to charm the list'ning brave, 
And hide the horrors of the yawning grave. 

From earliest days thou wert the friend of Love, 
With ready aid the yielding breast to move — 
Whatever the mood, of joy or restless sorrow, 
Thou canst accord and all the feeling borrow — 
Sigh with the lorn, and with the glad rejoice, 
To each responding with the soothing voice ; 
Companion of the lover's loneliness, 
Sharing his grief until he feels it less 5 



177 

Or if his suit be won, his bosom light, 
Making the lamp of pleasure burn more bright S 
Thine is the innate language of the heart, 
Unfraught with guile and undisguised by art, 
The unmark'd messenger from each to each, 
Of thoughts that spurn the bound and guise of 

speech, 
Accents that steal upon th' impassioned breast, 
Like wanton breezes on the stream at rest, 
Which trembles first as lightly roused from sleep, 
Then rises stronger, till the troubled deep 
No more displays its calm and wonted form, 
Rolls in dark waves and echoes back the storm. 

Is it not sweet when evening shadows fall, 
And silence holds all nature in her thrall, 
To roam secluded by the placid stream 
Which shines resplendent in* the moon's pale 

beam, 
Without a breeze to stir the slumb'ring lake, 
Without a thought the bosom's peace to shake, 
Anon to catch some note of melody, 
That breaks alone the sweet tranquillity ?— 
Oh ! what a tide of feelings rushes then ! 
Oh ! what a crowd of thoughts pours back again ! 
Visions that else had been remembered not, 
Sufferings and blighted hopes almost forgot ; — 

15 



17S 

Sorrows awaken'd from their sleep of years, 
Vain wishes — and remorse— and mingling fears — 
Dreams of the by-gone time that linger yet, 
Words, looks, and feelings we can ne'er forget — 
Joys that have left us — blessings that remain — 
Mercies that brighten on our course of pain — 
All summoned by the magic of that spell 
Rise at the sound from out their silent cell. 
There are Stoics who cry that thy pleasures are 

vain, 
That the pinions of virtue are spread at thy strain ; 
But away with the thought that in raptures so 

sweet 
There is aught for the wisest of mortals unmeet. 
Let the bigots be told that our life's tender flower, 
Must be warm'd by the sun, as refresh'd by the 

shower, 
Let them learn that the soul in devotion hath risen 
By the aid of thy power, from its cold earthly 

prison ; 
That the pityless breast in the rudest of climes, 
By thee hath been soften'd, and won from its 

crimes ; 
That man hath been led to religion and love, 
And e'en angels are harping in regions above. 
Aye ! I have heard thee upon holy ground 
Whereon men worship'd — when the solemn sound 



179 

Of sacred harmony hath mingled there 
With the low whisper of the fervent prayer ; 
When thou, Devotion's minister, didst raise 
The cheerful anthem and the chaunt of praise :— 
And what of incense could the soul accord 
More sweet and grateful to th' Almighty Lord ? 

There have been symbols in the ages fled, 
When on the altar votive blood was shed : — 
But thou art ours — a stainless sacrifice 
Of holy concords wafted to the skies, — 
And not an offering sent of man alone, 
But of all loveliness the breath and tone ; — 
The homage yielded by the silent earth 
To Him who gave each charm and beauty birth. 
The cry of Nature in her inmost soul elate, 
The voice and worship of all things inanimate ! 

August, 1818. 



ISO 



TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM, 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 



The day returns — and deem it not 

By me unheeded or forgot — 

The day when Friendship hastes to bear 

The cordial greeting, and the prayer 

That coming time thy lot may bless 

With lasting peace and happiness. 

Though wand'ring, lonely, far removed 

From kindred, home, and friends beloved, 

Our hearts are with thee on thy way, 

And pour, on this thy natal day, 

Their tributes and their thoughts of joy 

As warmly as thyself wert by : 

And though I am but one of those 

In whom the fervent feeling glows, 

My rapture hath another source 

That lends the stream an added force ; — 

It is — that in the friendly circle, I 

Should be the breath and voice of sympathy— 

That they, that all who hold thy welfare dear, 

May find their warmest feelings echoed here ! 

June 18, 1819. 



181 



MONT-BLANC. 



The Jura was around us — and the walls 
Of mighty mountains, in their spacious halls, 
Inclosed and barr'd us from the world below 
So sure — that by our sense we could not know 
That earth was other than it present seem'd : — 
But, that it must be our free souls had dreamed 
Of plains far stretching, like a boundless sea, 
To the horizon's wide immensity. 
Our giant guardians frowned on every side, 
Our spirits bowed before the mountain's pride, 
And owned the sway of forms like these, which 

tower 
As 't were to scoff at man's so boasted power. 
Yet there was beauty in that aspect wild, 
And Nature in her majesty still smiled — 
Smiled in her craggy temple lone and rude, 
Like Love that breathes uncheck'd in solitude. 
The heath-flower grew midst rugged stone and 

rock, 
The field was studded by the grazing flock, 



182 

The birds sang joyously — the pastoral bell 
Of browsing cattle rung from out the dell ; — 
The voice of waters as they wander'd by 
Sounded from depths that mocked the searching 

eye, 
Yielding a calm and gentle loveliness 
That made the mountain's awful port seem less, 
And gave a harmony, a peaceful air, 
As though celestial beings sojourn'd there. 

We journey'd on — unknowing of our way, 
And ling'ring with a half-formed wish to stay, 
As if the world contained no fairer sight 
Than that which then had rapt us with delight. 
A moment brought us to the mountain's brow, 
When, what had been our paradise, was now 
Lost in that new scene's wild sublimity — 
So strange that the astonished eye could see 
Nought that it knew, but deemed it was the birth 
Of dreams that had no kindred with our earth. 
The Alps were ranged before us, and appeared 
In hoary grandeur to the heavens upreared — 
Mountains on mountains crowd upon the eye 
Filling all space with their immensity. 
High o'er their heads in mightier grandeur still 
Mont Blanc the peerless, the imperial hill, 



183 

Rose like the monarch of some savage horde 
Whose form and front proclaim him for its lord. 
Their summits brightened in the cloudless heaven, 
Pure — as its azure canopy were given 
To win away the frowns of that stern host, 
Like Mercy hastening when all hope is lost. 
It was another world — and seemed to lie 
Beyond the bounds of our mortality — 
An earth that was not ours — a sphere unknown — 
A place for stainless, heavenly things alone. 
One glance that sought the mountain's feet re- 
called 
Our sense, by that resistless spell enthrall'd : 
There was Lake Leman — and its lovely fields 
Robed in the fairest forms that Nature yields, 
When in her gentlest most propitious hours 
She wreathes her garland with the gayest flowers. 
It is the valley of the clustering vine, 
The garden where all fairy hues combine, — 
The bright lake smiles with its blue chrystal 

stream, 
The green-sward rests beneath the sunlight's 

beam, 
And the high Alps a silent vigil keep, 
As guards that watch o'er Beauty wlfen asleep. 
Oh ! who could guess, that stood on Jura's height 
And bent in wonder o'er that vale of light, 



184 

Vain man breathed there ? — his dwellings were 

scarce seen 
To speck and mingle with the gay earth's green ; 
We saw not, heard not of his life or cares, 
The good and evil that his being shares — 
The hush'd calm world that stretch'd below, 

around, 
Was silent all — save that in us it found 
A voice of rapture, and a speaking soul 
Whose admiration burst from all controul. 
This was our climax — this the master spell 
Which bound our spirits, made our bosoms swell 
With feelings that but then had kindled there, 
And own'd no language but the whispered prayer. 
It was a blending of all beauties — fraught 
With every precept that to man is taught. 
Who from the valley learns his own estate, 
Gazes on Alps, and mocks the self-called great, — 
Then lifts his glance to the blue vault above, 
And rests rejoicing on its face of love. 

Father Supreme ! the mountains and the sea 
Are types and emblems of thy majesty — 
They come upon us in their awful forms 
As gifted with the ministry of storms — 
As things that have destruction in their power, 
The mighty sovereigns of the wrathful hour. 



185 

Yet still they seem of Time — to melt away 
And sink to darkness with our Nature's day : — 
It is the blue, the calm, the cloudless sky 
That bears the reflex of eternity ! 
Than this there is no sweeter, lovelier sight, 
One vast expanse, one flood of gentle light, 
Upon whose surface reigns the peace of heaven, 
The blest tranquillity to angels given. 
In that pure world behold the Sun alone, 
The glorious image of the Eternal throne, 
Shining on earth, with life, and power, and love, 
The sign and witness of the God above. 
And it was such a heaven as this which beamed 
Upon the mountain's grandeur — and these seemed, 
In truth, each with the other to contend 
Which should possess our souls, and make them 

bend 
In worship of their wonders — but our gaze 
Was not on one but all — our fixed amaze 
Paid homage to the spirit of the scene, 
That breathed i'th' air, the vale, the hills be- 
tween, — 
Which seemed to link their beauties, and to rise 
With earth's oblations to the smiling skies. 

There was one miracle we knew not then, 
One mightier marvel that escaped our ken, 



186 

Yet was within us — in the soul of man 
Gifted with life, and faculties to scan 
The broad fair page of Nature, and to find 
The deep-writ traces of th' Almighty mind — 
The Power who gave us being, joy, and hope, 
And placed the universe within our scope — 
Bade us seek pleasure in the morning's birth, 
In starlight splendours and in hues of earth, 
In the bright glories of the changing sky, 
The mountain's and the ocean's deep sublimity — 
And taught of these, to spurn each selfish thrall, 
And own a good supreme, — a God in all ! 

November, 1819. 



LAKE LEMAN. 



Lake Leman farewell ! should I never again 
Be a wand'rer beside thy blue wave, 

Yet thy mem'ry enshrined in my heart shall re- 
main, 
'Till the wild flower bends over my grave. 



187 

Thy waters of beauty that brightly are flowing. 
How they bound like a deer in its fleet- 
ness — 
As the warm pulse of youth when in rapture 'tis 
glowing 
With a love just disclosing its sweetness. 

E'en the bosom of grief must partake of thy glad- 
ness, 
And acknowledge thy power to beguile ; 
For the heart cannot greet that pure mirror in 
sadness, 
Nor gaze without sharing thy smile. 

Our youth is a shadow — the span of our days 

Is as brief as the joy of the bird, 
Which in summer pours o'er thee the voice of his 
lays, 

But in winter no longer is heard. 

And even as he hath forsaken thy shore, 
And hath left thee all silent and lone, — 

Our voice and our steps shall be with thee no 
more, 
But be mourn'd with the days that are gone. 



188 

Yet thy youth and thy strength, ever ardent and 
brave, 

Shall remain undiminished by time — 
And the hue of thy waters, the bound of thy wave, 

Be the charm of thy still blooming prime. 

And should I in age be left sad and alone, 
I shall call up the memory of thee — 

I shall think that thy child, the impatient young 
Rhone, 
Is still rushing to meet the dark sea. 

If the tomb have then closed o'er the friends of 
my heart, 

I shall fly to that image, the last — 
As the friend of long years, that will never depart 

Ere my life and its troubles be past. 

That remembrance shall banish my sorrow away 
As thy voice shall still sound in mine ear — 

And my bosom grow light, as it dwells on the day 
When in youth I first gazed on thee here. 

November, 1819. 



189 



ON HEARING 

THE MUSIC OF MY COUNTRY 

AT INTERLAKEN IN SWITZERLAND. 



Oh listen ! the tones of the land of my birth 
With their magic now steal on the ear ;— - 

There is not a spot in this wide-spreading earth, 
Where to me they can cease to be dear. 

The mountains close round us — these vallies are 
far 
From the isle whence those melodies come ; 
But the sweeter their sound, the more distant we 
are 
From the land of our love and our home. 

And can we forget the delights that were wreath'd 
With the strains vowed to Memory's shrine ? 

Oh ! we cannot forget the kind hearts that have 
breath'd 
Those notes in the days of " lang-syne." 



190 

What are the sounds can impart such a thrill 
As those which now float on the gale ? 

They have traversed the ocean, the plain, and the 
hill, 
And have sought our retreat in this vale. 

They are wafted from Britain, our own native land, 
In our breasts to awaken the glow 

Which the thought of our country must ever com- 
mand, 
While the life-blood continues to flow. 

And shall we not hail them as spirits of bliss, 
In our wand'rings hastening to cheer us, 

With the fancy that, list'ning to music like this, 
The friends of our bosom are near us ? 

On the wings of those sounds come the smiles of 
our friends, 
And the memories of home and of heart;— 
Every dream of our lives its enchantment now 
sends 
Its tribute of joy to impart. 

For many an hour in the years yet unwasted 
Those notes shall breathe round us delight, 

But never a rapture like that we have tasted 
From the sounds that have bless'd us to-night. 



191 

Interlaken adieu ! for Time hastens away ;— 
But these melodies still shall remain, 

And shall visit us oft in the happy long- day 
When our Country smiles on us again, 



THE 



ALCHEMIST, 

#C. <5fC. 



THE 



ALCHEMIST. 



No. I. 



tc Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons 
in-stones, and good in every thing." 

As you like it. Act II. Scene 1. 



Gentle reader! be not astonished or alarmed 
at the character in which I present myself to your 
notice : restrain the flight of your imagination, 
which I know is already on the wing, and look at 
me again before you endeavour to form any con- 
clusions respecting me. I entreat the curious 
man to be patient; the credulous not to expect 
more marvels than he will find in the History of 
the Caliph Vathek ; the incredulous to wait till 
he be convinced that I am not mad ; and the lady 
to moderate her anticipations of gaining, by my 
means, a husband and a coach-and-four. Ladies 
and gentlemen, let me beg of you to be silent ; 



196 

grant me a few moments' attention while I under- 
take to dissipate your alarms, repress your sig- 
nificant smiles, and gratify the curiosity of all, by 
assuring you that I am a most harmless, inoffen- 
sive creature ; that I neither carry sulphur in my 
pockets, nor propose to pay off the national debt ; 
that I am not a conjuror, nor a coiner; a quack 
doctor, nor a Member of the College of Physi- 
cians. I am neither a Fellow of the Royal So- 
ciety, nor of the Rosicrucian Fraternity ; and am 
very apprehensive I shall disappoint all the fre- 
quenters of shilling lectures, and the whole body 
of apothecaries' apprentices. In few words, I 
am a plain man, having a plain object. I have 
no ambition to be thought either an adept or an 
illumine : — I am an Alchemist, it is true ; but I 
am not the disciple of Avicenna, of Friar Bacon, 
of Ramond Lully, nor of any of the worthies who 
sought to discover the secret of transmuting in- 
ferior metal into gold, or of prolonging human 
existence by their infallible elixir. Mine is a 
nobler alchemy ; I would dive into the arcana of 
the heart and the understanding ; separate the 
gold from the dross, and exhibit it in all its native 
purity and lustre. My metal is, the human mind; 
my crucible is truth, and my laboratory the 
world ! 



19? 

Good is my gold, — and, with as much con- 
fidence as ever Alchemist possessed, do I assert, 
that gold may be found in every thing. I would 
show that the true way of promoting the happi- 
ness of mankind is, by a moral alchemy to divest 
the intellectual faculty of its alloys of error and 
ignorance ; to teach it to seek for good every 
where, until it arrive, by certain process, at the 
conviction, that virtue is the only agent which is 
capable of converting the heterogeneous ma- 
terials of human character and human knowledge 
into a genuine and lasting good. This mighty 
science I should rejoice to see taught in all lands, 
till the earth became one vast university, and all 
mankind its graduates. I challenge all the pro- 
fessors of all the sciences, to oppose to mine any 
that afford a more extended field of speculation ; 
proposing, as I do, to find good in the most 
bidden recesses, and to detect its presence in all 
things. No subject is too high or too low for 
this purpose — in man, from the prince to the pea- 
sant ; in books, from the folio to the ballad ; in 
mirth and in sadness ; in philosophy and in pas- 
sion ; in the pride of reason and in the humiliation 
of superstition. From all, I hope to elicit some- 
thing that shall instruct and please ; but to do 
this, it will be necessary to show Vice her own 



198 

deformity, as well as " Virtue her own feature;" 
and, in detaching the evil from the good, to ex- 
pose its worthlessness and its pernicious qualities, 
that future students in the art may learn to ap- 
preciate its true character, and detect the fallacy 
of its appearance. The results of these my 
chemic researches I intend communicating to the 
world weekly, with all the accuracy of deduction 
that I am master of, and all the variety of experi- 
ment that the science allows; happy, if I can 
produce gold where the unreflecting least expect 
it, and giving a scientific shake of the head at the 
alloy of base metal, that so often passes for pure 
aurum with the thoughtless multitude. If I can 
make it manifest that religion is not bigotry; 
dissimulation not honesty ; affectation not refine- 
ment ; that rhyme is not always poetry ; and that 
the letters L, O, V, E, often stand for any thing 
else than love, I shall be satisfied. Let not the 
" mad wag" laugh, and say — " this Alchemist, 
like all venders of nostrums for the benefit of 
mankind, will be found to have a powerful incli- 
nation for transporting certain pieces of metal 
from our pockets into his own ;" because I af- 
firm, and without fear of contradiction, that I am 
the cheapest Alchemist that ever existed. There 
is not an instance on record of any of them who 



199 

undertook to diffuse his knowledge for so small 
a sum as I require. 

And farther, as it is fit that my readers should 
imbibe becoming notions of my character and 
dignity, I will add, that I am not only the cheap- 
est, but the most useful, most potent, most chari- 
table, and most agreeable Alchemist that the art 
has produced. I am the most useful, because 
my discoveries are not confined to any particular 
class of students, nor loaded with the technicali- 
ties of an abstruse science, that render them in- 
teresting to the learned alone ; on the contrary, 
it is my most special desire that the whole world 
should read my papers. I intend they should be 
serviceable to all;- — and I hereby give notice, 
that every man who has been endeavouring to 
extract happiness from the materials presented 
to him, and, by forming wrong combinations, has 
missed his object, may come to me, and I will 
put him right. I will teach the man of pleasure 
to seek it where he never thought of looking for 
it — in his own company; — the misanthrope to 
glean it in the society of his fellow-men ; — the 
despairing lover to find it on this side the grave, 
and the infidel on the other. I will show the 
lady why she has lost her seven suitors* and the 
author why his last poem is unread. I will tell 



200 

them why they are all wrong— that they are mere 
tyros in the chemistry of life ; that they have had 
the best and most powerful drugs in the great 
laboratory of nature; that they have erred in 
mingling them, and the fault is their own. I 
elaim to be the most potent, because I am con- 
vinced no one will dispute my authority : there is 
not a man living who will be so rebellious as to 
tell me I cannot draw some gold from him ; while 
on the other hand, how many will eagerly sub- 
mit themselves to the operation of my art, in the 
full confidence that gold may be found within ; 
but, alas ! we know by fatal experience that " all 
is not gold that glitters :" the proverb is some- 
what musty, as Shakspeare has it. On this very 
account I am the most charitable of Alchemists, 
for I reject nothing as useless, and profess to 
discover some good in every thing ; like the well- 
digger who advertises to find water in any part 
of the kingdom, I undertake to find my gold in 
the worst heart and most obtuse skull that can be 
produced. Is not this charity? — but let not the 
fool imagine I shall suffer his folly to pass cur- 
rent for wit, or the bad man to disseminate his 
evil unmarked. Truth cannot be honoured unless 
error be exposed; I shall, therefore, denounce 
empirics of all descriptions — impudent venders 



201 

of false opinions, bad morals, and bad taste, and 
gratis distributors of mischief and deceit. Having 
said thus much, I think it will readily be admitted 
that 1 am also the most agreeable of my fraternity : 
but under this head I think it right to address a 
few words to the fair sex, whose favour I am 
particularly anxious to conciliate, assuring them 
that they and their affairs shall always receive 
the greatest attention from the Alchemist, who 
will be ever ready to give them his advice and 
assistance, teaching them to pick out the gold in 
a lover's character, and to discriminate the ap- 
pearances of baser metal. Besides, ladies, you 
are not to suppose that I am a cross-grained, old 
fellow, who shuts himself up in a workshop all 
day, and comes out in the evening with a dirty 
cravat, and a wig put on awry — no such thing 
believe me. I am not yet past the age when a 
lady's smile may work miracles, and the language 
of the eye be translated by the heart. I neither 
take snuff nor talk Greek, and I may, for ought 
I know, sometime in the course of my life, have 
written love verses. I beseech you also to re- 
member, that the more you admit me into your 
company, the more gold will my papers exhibit, 
and the more its value will be appreciated. The 
ladies will also be pleased to learn that I do not 

k5 



intend meddling with politics, for indeed, in all 
my experiments upon statesmen, I have always 
found the mixture of brass and lead so far to 
exceed the gold, that the latter was scarcely 
worth the trouble of extracting. I fancy I have 
now sufficiently introduced myself to my readers 
for my present purpose. I shall, therefore, ter- 
minate this number with inviting my friends to 
furnish me with the materials for gold, that I may 
return as much as possible to the world, through 
the medium of my lucubrations. I am ready to 
give advice to the sick, instruction to the igno- 
rant, and wealth to the needy, without an^ other 
fee than the purchase of my Essays. 

All communications for the Alchemist ad- 
dressed to will be duly attended to, 
if free of expense, as I have not yet obtained an 
Act of Parliament for transmuting his Majesty's 
silver and copper currency into gold. 

F. 



THE 



ALCHEMIST. 



No. II. 



" Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons 
in stones, and good in every thing." 

As you like it. Act II. Scene I. 



It is really surprising what a number of com- 
munications I have received from all classes of 
people — some giving and some asking advice; 
some pleased and some displeased with my pro- 
ject; some encouraging me to proceed, and 
others assuring me, " with the sincerity of a 
friend," that it is quite idle to expect any con- 
siderable degree of good in these degenerate days, 
then favouring me with their convictions of the 
causes of said degeneracy — many of them as 
opposite as the Poles: on this subject I shall 
reserve my own opinion for the present, only ex- 
pressing my confidence of being able to elicit as 



204 

much gold as will be requisite for my purpose, 
and more than the short-sighted and prejudiced 
anticipate. I am so sensible, however, of the 
friendly intentions of all, that I shall devote this 
day's paper to a selection of their various opi- 
nions, recommendations, and petitions. Were I, 
indeed, to attend to every suggestion, or agree 
with every anathema, " Othello's occupation" 
would soon be gone ; for it has often happened 
in the perusal of my correspondence, that I have 
scarcely made up my mind to comply with the 
wishes of one, by praising something that pleases 
him, when I stumble upon another letter advising 
me to reject it altogether; so that, being some- 
what confused by this war of advocates and op- 
ponents, I began to think I should be in a similar 
situation to him who interposes between two ad- 
versaries, which is generally tantamount to being 
ground in a mill or pounded in a mortar. I am 
desired by one to arraign the whole host of con- 
tinental travellers ; while another is positive that 
I shall never find any good on this side the 
channel, but that on the other the virtues of the 
inhabitants are so numerous and striking, that 
he was irresistibly impelled to bestow all his 
money upon them : one lady hopes that I will 
write against the methodists, for that ever since 



205^ 

her husband was bitten by one of them, he (poor 
misguided man !) has done nothing but go to 
meeting, and give away his money to the poor. 
On the other hand, a charitable old lady ear- 
nestly exhorts me to have nothing to do with the 
theatres, " for that playhouses, play-goers, play- 
writers, and play-actors, were all sold to the 
devil long ago." To neither of these can I make 
any satisfactory reply. One man defies me to 
find any good in his wife, even with a micros- 
cope ; another thinks I might devote a corner of 
my paper to the extraordinary qualities of his son 
Charles — " a most surprising boy of his age," 
with a variety of particulars and hints, that were 
I to insert, would, I fear, lead to an awkward 
correspondence with the Stamp Office. A witty 
gentleman in the East, one of the Magi, I sup- 
pose, has favoured me with an epistle, the intent 
of which will be best answered by being given 
entire to my readers. 

Threadneedle Street. 
MR. ALCHEMIST, 

I have read yours of the instant, 

and must say I have no fault to find with it as 
far as it goes; that is, as a promissory note, 
which as you seem to be a man of experience 



206 

in your business, I dare say will not be dis- 
honoured. But I must tell you, I am afraid 
your metal will not be of any service to me, 
for I am much in want of the real, substan- 
tial bullion — whereas your circulating medium 
seems to be paper> of which there is already 
a surplus in the market, and unless it shall be- 
come as current as a bank note, I fear it will 
soon be at a discount in the city. My disorder— 
an alarming one — is want of money, and if you 
can give me a " sovereign remedy" for that, I 
shall thank you. Yours, 

Gregory Grasp. 

To this chuckling, and I doubt not, satisfied 
personage, I shall say nothing ; I have given his 
wit to the world, and that I fancy was all he 
wanted : when a man feels a strong propensity 
to show his talents, who can be so barbarous as 
to deny him the opportunity? But here is one 
from a lady, let all the rest give place: — 

MR. ALCHEMIST, 

You promised in your first number to 
tell us something about love, and as I have had 
some very odd symptoms lately, I thought I 
could not do better than ask your advice ; but I 



207 

hope you will let me have an answer the very 
first opportunity, for I am anxious to know whe- 
ther my conjectures are right or not. There is a 
very handsome young man — indeed, quite an 
Adonis, who comes to our house, and is so kind 
and attentive to me that I cannot help thinking — 
but never mind that, I am only to speak of my- 
self now — whenever he comes into the room, I 
feel so odd, you have no idea, somehow all in a 
flutter. Then, he sighs very often, and I am sure 
to catch myself sighing too; and half a dozen 
times in a day I wish I was walking on the 
sea-shore, listening to the waves, or that he 
was there too, reading poetry, — he reads poetry 
sweetly — aye, and writes it besides. The other 
day he showed me some verses about Hebe and 
the Graces, and T know not who else, signed 
Lysander ; and so I wrote an Ode to Venus, be- 
ginning— 

" Bright, celestial Paphian Queen," 

and, would you believe it, I wrote Hermia un- 
derneath, without thinking, as naturally as if it 
had been my own christened name: TVas not 
that droll ? You remember Lysander and Her- 
mia are the names of two lovers in the Mid- 
summer Night's Dream. A few evenings since 



208 

we both were to have gone to a ball, but papa 
would not let me go, which distressed me so 
much that I cried bitterly — which I never used 
to do — and could not get a wink of sleep all 
night for thinking of Lysander, so that in the 
morning I looked as pale as ashes, which made 
my sister say — " La! Peggy, (that is my proper 
name) how white you look ! " and then I blushed 
quite red — which I never used to do. Very often 
when I am at work, I prick my finger by acci- 
dent, and it always makes me think of Cupid's 
darts. I am grown so fond of Romeo and Juliet, 
and the Sorrows of Werter, that I could read 
them from morning till night. Oh ! I could tell 
you a great deal more, but I believe I have said 
enough. Now for it — " Lie still, my heart." 
Pray, sir, am I in love ? 

Hermia. 

To this I can only answer — No ! ! you are 
not in love, and what is more, you never will be, 
till all these things are out of your head. 

I am sorry to find some misapprehensions 
have existed respecting the design of my papers ; 
some expect me to work miracles for them, 
though I expressly declared I was no conjuror ; 



209 

while others are afraid of me, notwithstanding 
what I said of the extent of my power, and the 
harmlessness of my disposition. 

Take the following as a specimen of the 
former :— - 

MR. ALCHEMIST, 

I am a bookseller and publisher with a 
large family, and I humbly crave your assistance 
in circumstances of great distress. You must 
know, sir, I published Mr. * * * * 's last quarto, 
and (grieved I am to say it) the public, after 
diligent search, are not able to find any gold in 
it at all, and consequently I cannot get any out 
of it, though, heaven knows, it has extracted a 
large quantity out of my pocket for paper, print- 
ing, &c. Now, worthy sir, as you have under- 
taken to find gold in the most hidden recesses, 
perhaps, you may be successful here, and be able 
to show the world that it is quite mistaken, and 
that the work does really contain some of that 
precious material. If you will do this, you would 
not only confer a lasting obligation on me and my 
family, but acquire the reputation of having made 
one of the most original discoveries of the present 
age. Your obedient Servant, 

Matthew Margin. 



210 

I dare say I should. Now, though I am 
sorry for the poor man's misfortunes, I cannot 
assist him, for it would occupy more time than I 
could possibly afford, on account of the immense 
bulk of the subject of operation. When the 
reviewers have carted away the rubbish, I might 
be induced to try, as I have no doubt the re- 
mainder would lie in a very small compass. 

A curious adventure of this kind happened to 
me on the morning after the publication of my 
first Essay. I was taking my breakfast, as usual, 
wrapt in meditation, when I was aroused by a 
tap at my chamber door, and the entrance of my 
landlady, a respectable elderly woman with 
whom I have always been on the best terms. I 
I observed that her countenance betrayed symp- 
toms of uneasiness, and that she looked round 
the room with evident signs of apprehension. 
When seated, she began by saying, " I beg your 
pardon, sir, but I have something particular to 
mention to you, which has made me very uncom- 
fortable, — indeed I have had no sleep all night." 
" Dear me, madam," said I, " I am extremely 
sorry — but what was the cause?" " Oh, sir, it 
was for fear any thing should happen." Totally 
in the dark, I replied, " Happen, ma'am, why 
what should happen ? " " Dear sir, excuse me, 



211 

but the printer's boy told me last night that 
you was an Alchemist." " Well," I said, " it 
is true I am the Alchemist, but what of that ? " 
" Why, sir, only to think, you know, if with 
your mixings and pounding, and sulphur and 
gunpowder, you should chance to set the house 
on fire, what would become of me, a poor widow 
as I am, without a friend," &c. &c. 

I now began to see a little, and after a few 
more questions I discovered that she had been 
referring to the article " Alchemist* in a cheap 
Cyclopedia, and had there found that certain of 
the fraternity in the " olden time" were occasion- 
ally in the habit of blowing up houses, and them- 
selves out of the window, to the great injury and 
affright of his Majesty's loving subjects. Having 
thus ascertained the cause, I proceeded to dissi- 
pate her fears as speedily as possible, by assuring 
her that I had no combustibles in my apartment ; 
that my whole stock consisted merely of pens, 
ink, and paper ; and that I neither belonged to 
a gas-light company nor a steam packet, of both 
which the good lady has an inconceivable horror. 
She then begged my pardon repeatedly for the 
intrusion, and said she felt her heart quite light- 
ened, but added, as she was going out — " Per- 
haps, sir, you would be so kind as to keep it as 
quiet as you can, for if the fire office was to find 



212 

that a person with such a frightful name lived 
here, they would insist on the house being insured 
as doubly hazardous." Good! exclaimed I, 
when she was gone, this would do for an essay 
on prejudice. How readily do men imbibe no- 
tions that they suffer to remain impressed upon 
the mind, which a little serious examination 
would inevitably have destroyed. How often 
do they confound words and ideas, without con- 
sideration, and form prejudices against mere 
names, the meaning of which they do not under- 
stand, or perhaps have scarcely thought of. 
Strange, indeed, are the freaks of prejudice, and 
dangerous as a blind man shooting poisoned ar- 
rows. Few things are more easily introduced — 
few things more difficult to be eradicated, and to 
contend with its pertinacity is a work of no mean 
labour and patience. I shall subjoin a very sen- 
sible letter I have received on this very subject. 

" I highly approve, Mr. Alchemist, of 
your undertaking, and the principles on which it 
is founded. But let me ask, if you have suf- 
ficiently considered the difficulties you are likely 
to encounter from prejudice. You, as a phi- 
losopher, may be perfectly convinced of the prac- 
ticability of finding good every where ; but if you 
paid that deference to the prejudices of mankind 



213 

which they invariably require, you would stand a 
great chance of finding it no where. What is 
there that is not under the ban of some party, or 
the victim of some prejudice? and you will soon 
perceive, that it is not the bad quality of your 
materials that will be an obstacle in your way, 
but the estimation in which those materials are 
held — the predetermination that what you have 
declared may be rendered of use, is radically 
worthless and incorrigible. One man rejects 
this — another man despises that — and he who 
avows the idea of finding good in all things, will 
be surprised to discover that he stands alone 
against " a world in arms." 

Yours, &c. 

Amicus. 

I thank my correspondent for his friendly 
lines, though I do not partake of his fears. I 
admit the power and influence of prejudices, and 
it is my object to diminish them as much as pos- 
sible by demonstrating to mankind, that what 
their rash judgments have condemned altogether, 
may, by a skilful process, be shown to contain 
that which is useful and good. Nor do I ap- 
prehend that I shall have the *' world in arms " 
against me, for as I must have the coincidence 



214 

of some on particular points, I hope so far to 
gain their favour, as to obtain concessions on 
others where we differ. I should far exceed my 
limits were I to prosecute this idea now, but I 
shall most probably resume it with the subject 
of prejudices generally at another opportunity. 

A. 



SCINTILLUL^E. 

1817. 



I was walking up Fleet Street one evening, 
just after Napoleon's unexpected return to 
France from Elba, ruminating on the extraor- 
dinary events that had recently occurred in the 
political world. " Confusion to the wretch!" 
exclaimed I; " may the irresistible hand of the 
Avenger be raised against the man, who thus 
sets himself in opposition to the peace of the 
world, and rends the hearts of thousands, to 
elevate himself upon a pinnacle of straw ! " At 
this moment, a crowd assembled before the door 
of a public house attracted my attention ; I stop- 
ped: — It was a dragoon taking leave of hi* 
friends previous to his setting out for the con- 
tinent : he was sitting on his horse, and drinking 
his parting glass with a serene cheerfulness that 
interested me, and determined me to witness the 
end of the adventure. His steed was impatient 
and restless, but he checked him with the mildness 



216 

of good temper, as- one who felt that this moment 
was not of an ordinary character — that it was a 
time to be composed and considerate. He said 
something to each of his companions, who pressed 
round to greet him with a hearty shake of the 
hand, and wishes for his welfare. A little boy 
pushed forward to utter his simple salutation — 
" Good bye, Tom."-—" Good bye— God bless 
you ! " replied the soldier, with earnestness. The 
expression and the manner pierced my very soul. 
A chill came o'er me — I feel it now. He turned 
his horse — galloped off, and in an instant he was 
gone ! " Yes ! he was gone, and it might be 
that he would never return ; — he was about to 
plunge into a strife which concerned him not ; he 
was going to risk his life — for what? — that a few 
unfeeling mortals might enjoy a few more vani- 
ties ; that one might tyrannise over his fellow- 
men, and claim their confidence even from their 
destruction ! In that same hour — for that same 
purpose — how many partings rent the hearts of 
those who could reap nothing from its results 
but misery! how many eyes are filled with 
tears — the wife for the husband — the father for 
the child — the friend for the friend ! what waste 
of affliction! — hearts broken for the heartless — . 
tears for the tearless — sorrow for the senseless ! 



217 

O ye reasoners ! O ye wise ! ye arguers of right 
and wrong ! ye advocates of policy and glory ! 
close up your tomes of sophistry and art ; turn to 
the page of Nature ! Listen to the widow's and 
to the orphan's cry ; behold the despair of age, 
and the phrenzy of youth ; scan the black cata- 
logue of ill that war hath framed — and then" — 

My foot struck against a stone — 
" Pshaw ! I wish that soldier had been in Bel- 
gium." 



Saint Omer is a large, irregular, antique town, 
containing many remains of former grandeur and 
importance. Entering by the Lille road, a fine 
ruin presents itself to view — I believe it had 
been the cathedral : and in winding through the 
gloomy intricacies of the city, you behold several 
towers and large buildings, either dilapidated or 
grossly perverted from their original design — the 
wretched effects of revolutionary fury ! It was 
just twilight when we strolled through the de- 
serted streets, where, but for the British troops 
quartered in the town, we should scarcely have 
met a passenger. In a retired part we found a 
large church, uninjured, and here we were ar- 

L 



218 

rested by the sound of a bell — so sweet and so 
melodious, so solemn and so impressive, that I 
never can forget it. It tolled the hour of eight ; 
it seemed like the knell of departed days — a lone 
relic of the past in its solitary tower— a remem- 
brancer of the former generation — a monitor of 
the present ! It was an awful moment of reflec- 
tion — a history— an oracle! No tale of well- 
remembering old age — no moralist with all his 
eloquence— no spirit from the grave could create 
feelings more serious and more powerful than 
those produced by the magic of that bell ; we 
were alone — not a human being — not a sound 
disturbed the silence. The barking of a dog at 
length indicated the appearance of some one ; 
an old woman emerged from a cottage, with 
whom we entered into conversation ; she told us 
of the ravages and atrocities of the revolution ; 
of the numerous magnificent religious buildings 
that had previously existed; deplored their ruin, 
and the decay which appeared to extend its 
withering influence every where. This I say— 
ihis was a volume ; and when I would meditate 
on mortal nothingness — on Time and on Eter- 
nity — I think of the warning bell of Saint Omer. 



219 



On our return from France, we occupied a spare 
hour in taking a cursory survey of Dover. The 
castle first claimed our attention. It is beauti- 
fully situated on a steep eminence looking to- 
wards the sea, and commands a most extensive 
and charming prospect. The ascent to it is by 
several flights of steps cut from the rock. At a 
resting place, about half way up, we stopped to 
gaze upon the delightful view that presented it- 
self. We were suddenly surprised by the tinkling 
of a small bell close to us ; looking round, we at 
length perceived a bell placed on a post, where 
also was a board with the inscription — " Pray 
remember the poor Debtors." To this bell was 
attached a rope, the other end of which commu- 
nicated with a grated window of the castle above, 
and through the bars was distinctly seen a hu- 
man countenance — some unhappy being whom 
misfortune had thus placed in a confinement 
doubly horrible. We searched for some money, 
but alas ! we had none; we had just landed, and 
had not hitherto occasion for any,— here was a 
disappointment. With what feelings of humiliation 
did I descend the steps — conscious that the poor 
prisoner was watching us — that he saw us return 
without bestowing one farthing to alleviate the dis- 



220 

tresses of imprisonment. He knew not we had no 
money, — what could he think of us ? He — whose 
cell adjoins the noisy street, where the bustle, 
the occupation, and the converse of mankind 
amuse his eye and ear: — he — who sees nought 
but the dungeon walls and his jailor's unpitying 
visage — both are happy compared with the pri- 
soner of Dover Castle. He is wretched in the 
midst of happiness ; pleasures invite him on every 
side, but he cannot grasp them; the heavens 
smiling above — the sea with all its gliding barks 
— the busy town — the vale rich in its fertility, and 
sprinkled with the humble cots of rustic happi- 
ness — all these are daggers to his soul — they are 
within his view, but enjoyment is not within his 
reach. He is a captive in the very paradise of 
liberty :— 

" Lone as a solitary cloud — 

A single cloud on a sunny day — 

A frown upon the atmosphere, 

Which hath no business to appear, 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay." 

He sees the world, but the world sees not him ; 
he hath no intercourse with men — his eyes see 
them, but his ears hear them not — they " come 
like shadows, so depart." Is not this torture — 



221 



misery — barbarity ? What seek ye, creditors ? — 
security alone, or biting demon-like revenge,— if 
the last, here you may be gratified. 



If there be a character which in my estimation 
is peculiarly despicable, it is that of a clergyman 
inattentive to moral propriety. I do not mean 
vices which incur the censure of the law, and 
cause expulsion from the sacred office, but those 
deviations from a Christian deportment, which 
however they may find palliatives in other cases, 
in that of a teacher of religion and virtue admit 
of no excuse. Whatever is lax in morals, in 
sentiment, or decorum, becomes doubly pernici- 
ous from such examples. Error is magnified — 
folly is more contemptible, and vice more hi- 
deous when springing from a source that ought 
to be so pure. I have been told with compla- 
cency, though I never heard without indignation, 
of the puppyism of one clergyman — of the oaths 
of another, and the revelry of a third — men whose 
duty it is to denounce folly, blasphemy, and 
drunkenness ! ! ! 

I have no wish to deprive the ministers of 



222 

religion of innocent amusements and cheerful- 
ness, or to see them with their eyes and hands 
continually uplifted to heaven, like the monu- 
mental figures in Westminster Abbey, but I do 
wish to see them preserve the dignity of their 
character, by a discreet, sober deportment. To 
linger on the margin of the gulph of sin, always 
appears to me like an inclination to plunge in, 
from which the party is only deterred by that 
second-hand spectre, the opinion of the world, 
and even that is sometimes deficient in effect. I 
am shocked as I run over in my mind the cata- 
logue of living clerical vagabonds — of revellers 
— gamblers — and duellists ! ! ! such men must be 
ignorant of the book it is their duty to expound, 
or they are practical liars to themselves and to 
God. 



A 

COMPARATIVE VIEW 

OP 

BRITISH LITERATURE, 

DURING 
THE LAST HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS. 



A 
COMPARATIVE VIEW 

OF 

BRITISH LITERATURE, 

DURING 
THE LAST HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS. 



The epochs of literature, with their distinctive 
features, have been commonly marked in so de- 
cided a manner, and the operation of the causes 
producing the change has been so obvious and 
clear, that the revolutions of the literary world 
have become as much matters of history as those 
of empires ; and the inquirer has been enabled, 
not only to assign the periods when particular 
styles, tastes, and classes of study have arisen 
and declined, but also to trace them to their 
origin in those impressions on the human mind, 
which give tone to the manners and character of an 
age, whether arising from the ordinary progress 

L5 



of intellectual improvement, or from causes more 
artificial and temporary in their nature. At the 
present time, literary history is cultivated to a 
very considerable extent, though not more than 
its importance deserves, deeply connected as it 
is with the best interests of mankind — with the 
foundations of morality and knowledge, and with 
those hidden springs which are continually act- 
ing upon the destinies, character, and condition 
of nations, as well as upon the happiness and rela- 
tions of individual men. To enlarge on the 
reciprocal influence which literature and society 
exercise upon each other, would exceed the de- 
sign and limits of this Essay, which is intended 
merely as an auxiliary contribution, to the in- 
quiries that may be justly termed the philosophy 
of literature; which regarding this last as one 
of the mightiest engines of human happiness and 
virtue, would contemplate its action and effects 
in a comprehensive view of its powers and im- 
portance. 

In Great Britain, the eighteenth century was 
distinguished beyond all its predecessors for the 
number of men of learning it produced— for the 
extent and variety of their labours, and for the 
general diffusion of knowledge which was the 
necessary consequence. Although few years have 



22r 

elapsed since these men were living among us, 
and enjoying the meridian of their reputation, it 
is a remarkable fact, that the style and opinions 
of the present age are as opposite to those of the 
last, as if numerous generations had intervened. 
So marked is the distinction, and so generally 
understood, that we refer to the writings of the 
" old school" and the "last age" without the 
least chance of being misunderstood. The prin- 
ciples that have wrought this change will afford 
materials for much curious reflection, involving 
the consideration of important revolutions in 
manners, knowledge, and the constitution of 
society. In taking a cursory view of this in- 
teresting period, it is not intended to enter into 
minute comparisons of particular schools or 
authors, or to decide upon the individual pre- 
tensions of living writers; but to survey the 
prominent features of the several branches of 
literature, and the alterations produced in them 
by their governing causes. 

The first school of British literature was that 
founded in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, by 
the genius of Bacon, Shakspeare, Spenser, Jon- 
son, Buchanan, Sidney, and a series of illustrious 
names, who enriched the land with some of the 
earliest flowers of native growth, after the soil 



228 

began to be cleared of the weeds of superstition 
and ignorance, which had hitherto defied all at- 
tempts at cultivation. The impulse given to the 
minds of men by the reformation, was most ani- 
mating and powerful: freed from the chains of 
bigotry, the imagination bounded over the fields 
of knowledge in the unrestrained pursuit of in- 
tellectual pleasure. The confined and perverted 
studies of the cloister decayed with the cloisters 
themselves; a spirit of inquiry was diffused 
among the people ; a love of poetiy and the arts 
was conspicuous in the court; speculation and 
adventure characterized the age ; ships sailed to 
explore lands unknown, and while a new and 
material world was laid open to the navigator's 
view, another and an equally unexplored world 
of mental wonders engaged the attention of the 
philosopher and the poet. 

The leading character of the compositions of 
this period, is originality of idea and expression; 
for in the absence of models, the writers were 
compelled to draw on their own resources of ob- 
servation and fancy. Hence we find in their 
productions an abundance of imagery — a richness 
of fancy, and what may be styled a lavish ex- 
penditure of words, all denoting unexhausted 
stores of mental wealth, and a free dispensing 



229 

of it, by a genius uncramped in its operations by 
poverty of materials, or dread of criticism. In 
Shakspeare we have all these employed in the 
noblest situations — in tracing the intricate mazes 
of the human character — in sublime contempla- 
tions — in fanciful descriptions of overflowing 
richness — forming altogether a combination that 
seemed to anticipate the refined philosophy of 
succeeding ages, while presenting an epitome of 
the genius, the originality, and the spirit of his 
own. 

Spenser, in the path which he has selected, 
is still more luxuriant. His description, his al- 
legory, and his verse, are cloying from over- 
sweetness ; he seems to have lost himself in a 
labyrinth of odoriferous plants, and to be intoxi- 
cated with their perfume, scattering his treasures 
with unsparing profusion, as if compelled to drain 
the too abundant mine. The same spirit is dis- 
cernible in the writings of the profound Bacon, 
which display a similar fulness of thought and 
extended reach of speculation, indicating a ma- 
sterly survey of unexamined subjects and sublime 
inquiries, to which many of the modern philoso- 
phers are indebted for original ideas that they 
have refined and improved. Another great cha- 
racteristic of this school, is the strict attention to 



230 

nature and genuine feeling manifested throughout 
its writings. The refinements of art had then 
little influence on manners or literature ; rules of 
criticism and precedents of authority were, in a 
great measure, unknown, so that a writer was 
not diverted from his primary objects — the study 
of truth, nature, and man. His ideas were just, 
striking, and comprehensive, because he deline- 
ated from Nature herself, and consequently his 
expressions were strong, nervous, and appropri- 
ate. The principal defect was the want of re- 
finement; his phrases were homely but accurate — 
the very ruggedness of which was an evidence of 
their truth, and the image created in the mind 
was never less vivid, because the phraseology 
was plain. Of this a variety of instances could 
be adduced from these writings, but it would be 
a digression foreign to our purpose. The sim- 
plicity of manners, and the romantic spirit that 
prevailed, were naturally transferred to the lite- 
rary compositions, which reflect the bland and 
chivalrous disposition of the age, with a licence 
of style and feeling incidental to a people just 
emerged from barbarism and ignorance into in- 
tellectual freedom and novelty of enjoyment. 

In the violent and fanatical times of Charles 
the First and Cromwell, this fine spirit neces- 



231 

sarily sustained much injury, for not only was 
the attention diverted from literary subjects by 
the wars in which the whole nation shared, but 
those who continued to write were employed in 
promoting the views of party prejudice, and in 
perverting reason and philosophy to answer tem- 
porary and unworthy purposes. The nervous 
and expressive style of composition, although 
thus misapplied and impaired by the sophistry 
of which it became the medium, was not, how- 
ever, extinguished at once, but gradually frit- 
tered away by these and succeeding causes, into 
forced illustration and refined verbiage. Never- 
theless, it is to this period that we owe the 
sublime productions of Milton, whose extraordi- 
nary genius, soaring above the trivialities and the 
pinioned flutterings of his day, has bequeathed 
us a work, of which any age or nation might be 
proud, uniting in one composition sublimity of 
thought and vigour of expression — magnificence 
of design, loftiness of imagery, and refinement of 
language, all blended together with the utmost 
harmony and justness of poetical feeling. There 
is, perhaps, no single work in our language com- 
bining so many qualities, and in such perfection. 
It is supported throughout by the same internal 
fire which seems to animate and to breathe in 



232 

every word, and without which, the poem, not- 
withstanding its advantages of subject and no- 
velty, would have been as languid and heavy as 
the great mass of blank verse that succeeded it. 

At the Restoration, the principal features of 
taste in literature and the arts underwent a far- 
ther change, from the introduction of French 
models, manners, and opinions, — not effected 
speedily, but silently sapping its way through the 
foundations of taste and elegance, and cherished 
by the subsequent prevalence of foreign style 
and customs, until the system finally attained its 
climax in the eighteenth century. The great 
principle of this new style was an artificial re- 
finement, anxiously employed in the selection of 
words as the media of ideas, to which the ideas 
themselves were strained to subserviency, and 
were regarded as a secondary consideration. 
The exquisite polish of a fine surface renders 
the intrinsic value of the materials beneath a 
matter of inferior importance, and thus was the 
attention transferred from the substantial quali- 
ties of composition, to those which were merely 
decorative and auxiliary. Art was preferred to 
nature ; the restraints of arbitrary rule to the free 
aspirations of genius ; verbal conceits to profound 
thought; the wit of rhyme to the abstraction of 



233 

poetry. Nor were any of the arts exempt from 
the influence of this corrupt taste. Architecture 
was degraded by the introduction of a barbarous 
style, whose only characteristics were massive 
ugliness, and the total want of all symmetry. 
The beautiful forms of Greece, and the simple 
grandeur of the Gothic structures were discarded 
for the cumbrous and misshapen edifices of 
France and Holland; the natural and elegant 
gave way to the formal and artificial; the strik- 
ing and magnificent to the ponderous and mean. 
Nature herself was too " wild in her attire" for 
the reformers of beauty ; they clothed her in the 
absurd costume of art ; parcelling out the face 
of the soil and its productions with mathematical 
precision, and labouring to regulate the vegetable 
world by the laws of angular construction. This 
system was too ridiculous even for the notions of 
those times, and drew down the satire and re- 
probation of the wits whose ideas were not quite 
reduced to the level of these despoilers of nature. 
Pope, however, when ridiculing the prevailing 
folly in his celebrated epistle to the Earl of Bur- 
lington, does not seem to have been conscious 
that his own verses were liable to the same im- 
putation of bad taste. The costume of the day 
was of a similar character— unwieldy and incon- 



234 

venient in itself, and destroying all symmetry of 
form; while its influence was so general and 
arbitrary, that it was continually introduced into 
the arts, producing the greatest incongruities in 
dramatic exhibitions, sculpture, and painting, 
where it was suffered to exclude all harmony of 
effect, and to deface the impressions which the 
design was intended to create. Such a general 
perversion of taste in the arts, could not occur 
without a corresponding degeneracy in the style 
and subjects of literary composition, and in this 
instance, the evil influence was but too evident 
throughout. We find it in the laboured writing — 
the mechanical reasoning — the languid enthu- 
siasm, and absence of genuine and elevated feel- 
ing which mark the productions of this period, 
arising sometimes from the meretricious style in 
which they were composed, and sometimes from 
the incapacity of the subjects to call forth the 
nobler powers of genius and reason. This will 
be more clearly illustrated when we advert to 
the different branches of literature in detail. It 
may appear singular that such a censure should 
be bestowed on an age adorned by the fame of 
Locke, Addison, Pope, Thomson, Bentley, Bo- 
lingbroke, Swift, and many more whose names 
are regarded with admiration and respect, as the 



235 

classics of our country; but be it remembered 
that in condemning the spirit that pervades the 
mass, we do not include what is really excellent, 
or from its nature exempt from the influence we 
deprecate. Locke was great, because his sub- 
jects were beyond the reach of ordinary and 
conventional impressions. Addison was elegant, 
because, in labouring to improve the morals, and 
to refine the taste and manners of his age, he had 
to inculcate by example, and to persuade by gen- 
tleness and grace. The follies he chastised were 
those of fashionable society — the business of life 
was his theme, and as far as the limits of his 
path would allow, did his excellence extend. The 
same observations will apply to Pope, though in 
a less degree, being qualified by the circumstance 
that he was much more under the influence of 
artificial habits than Addison. These are also 
more visible in verse than elsewhere; besides 
that the personal character of Pope was of a 
similar cast, and contained little of true feeling 
and unsophisticated nature. None of these 
writers were free from the faults of their era, 
which are more or less conspicuous in all their 
contemporaries, although the learning, the ge- 
nius, and the general ability which they exhibited 
within the bound of those principles and habits, 



Z36 

which were laws to them, and were sanctioned 
by the world, were amply sufficient to procure 
a lasting reputation for themselves, and an ho- 
nourable pre-eminence for their country. 

The establishment of this school of writers 
was the effect of society upon literature; the 
succeeding age furnishes us with a mighty re- 
action of literature upon society. The progress 
of metaphysical researches, and the corrupt state 
of taste, manners, and opinions, had given rise 
to a new class of philosophers in Prance, who 
took advantage of the general apathy and de- 
generacy, to strike at the foundations of religion, 
morals, and old associations, and to propagate 
the most dangerous doctrines of a nature diame- 
trically opposite to these. The French were then 
in the lowest condition of intellectual and poli- 
tical slavery, and these men, by giving them im- 
pulses to which they were unaccustomed, and 
speculations which gratified their craving for 
novelty, by opening paths of inquiry of which 
the intricacy alone was a temptation to enter, 
and by administering to their national weak- 
nesses, filled their minds with a poison that 
changed the constitution of society, and led to 
the tremendous revolution that subsequently agi- 
tated the whole of Europe. In subverting the 



237 

established principles of religion, philosophy, and 
government, all minor shrines shared in the de- 
struction : but although much harm may have 
been done to society, from the free circulation of 
irreligion and sophistry, which could only be 
supported by the perversion of reason, and the 
substitution of false conclusions of argument, and 
glossed deception for truth ; yet we cannot deny 
that from all this evil considerable good has been 
extracted. The mere necessity of defending the 
altar and the throne, aroused a zealous and ani- 
mating spirit (most conspicuous in Britain) that 
rendered essential service to literature, as well as 
to religion and sound principle. To this we owe 
the chief writings of a Watson, a Horsley, and 
a Burke — all distinguished for strength of rea- 
soning and elegance of style. But in a more 
comprehensive view of the subject, we shall dis- 
cover incalculable benefits resulting from the new 
opinions themselves, after the ore had been puri- 
fied from the dross, which had converted what 
was really valuable into a deadly poison. We 
shall perceive the influence of enlarged ideas in 
its operation on the choice of study and of mo- 
dels—in the abolition of the confined philosophy 
of the schools — in emancipation from arbitrary 
rules of taste and criticism— in the restoration of 



238 

poetry to its merited rank — and in the triumph 
of genius, imagination, and feeliDg, over affecta- 
tion, empty trifling, and unmeaning verbiage. 
Wearied by a system that possessed no substan- 
tial qualities or intrinsic value to recommend it, 
and which had been farther deteriorated by the 
crowd of literary empirics that had practised it, 
the aspirants of a more auspicious age gladly 
seized on any subject for the exercise of their 
talents, more congenial to their enthusiasm and 
understandings than those which had employed 
their predecessors. The chains which had bound 
their minds being once broken, they pressed for- 
ward with all the ardour of enterprize to the 
untried shores which were opened to their view ; 
and however the particular courses of individuals 
may have excited a conflict of critical opinions, 
it is certain that to the spirit of the times we are 
indebted for an extent of speculation, a libe- 
rality of thinking, that had not before been wit- 
nessed. 

Of all the branches of literature affected by 
the change, poetry and those compositions more 
peculiarly dependant on the imaginative faculties 
of the mind have received the most sensible im- 
pression, and have exhibited an alteration of cha- 
racter, the more surprising when it is considered 



239 - 

how few years have passed away since the im- 
pulses that produced it were first set in motion. 

The subjects of poetry in the early ages were 
of that exalted kind most fitting for the exercise 
of the noble powers it called forth. The actions 
of immortals and heroes — situations of grandeur 
and deep impressiveness — the varieties of the 
active and moral sublime — the operations of Na- 
ture, and the beauty of her aspect, kindled the 
imagination of the poet, and gave to his themes 
and language a character of elevation that seem- 
ed to command the world, and not to mingle in 
its petty cares and frivolities of speech and ac- 
tion. This was the proper end and employment 
of poetry ; and if the age of our own Elizabeth, 
from difference of customs and speculative opi- 
nions, was inferior in sublimity, it was at least 
equally conspicuous for the unchecked range of 
originality and genius. Under Charles the Se- 
cond, by the aid of licentious manners and French 
refinement, verse sunk into the mere vehicle of 
the frivolities of life — of common-place, and af- 
fected sentiments — of courtly wit — of odious 
profligacy, and contemptible trifling. The sub- 
ject and the versification — the topics and the 
language were suited to each other. Degraded 
as were the former, the last was not less so by 



240 

rules of art, and the custom of moulding brief 
periods and straining them into rhyme. It is 
singular also, that what was commenced by the 
frivolity of one age, should be continued by the 
dulness of another. It is true, that in the suc- 
ceeding reigns morals were improved, and so far 
poetry assumed a purer character, but the faults 
of style remained the same. Pope has been 
called the poet of society, and the term might be 
applied with equal truth to the great mass of his 
contemporaries. Their talents were employed in 
illustrating or ridiculing the manners of the day — 
in commemorating circumstances of temporary 
interest — in satires, epigrams, dialogues, and fa- 
miliar epistles — in exchanging flatteries or abuse, 
and in, clothing the natural feelings of the human 
heart with as much affectation and artificial orna- 
ment, as their persons were encumbered with 
ungraceful vestments and awkward finery. From 
this range, sublimity, imagination, and nature 
were excluded, and wit, precision of construc- 
tion, and polished verse usurped their place, as 
the grand disiderata of composition. One of the 
finest exceptions to the system is Thomson's 
" Seasons," where the genius of the poet, unfet- 
tered by rhyme, and by unworthy topics, expands 
boldly into contemplations on the grandeur of 



241 

nature — on beautiful scenery — on amiable sym- 
pathies — and on the mind, feelings, and condition 
of man. Although, unquestionably tinctured with 
the prevailing errors, it is, altogether, an effort 
beyond the standard of his time. The philoso- 
phic poem of Young deserves a share of this 
commendation, but in a less degree, as its vigour 
is unequally supported, and its length occasions 
a tediousness that the subject will not bear. 
Pope's " Essay on Man" suffers much from the 
rhyme; the theme is too great to be versified; 
and to intersperse epigrammatic wit, as in an 
epilogue, is the very climax of bad taste. 

Happily for the display of genius, and the 
value of literature, the poets of the present day 
are differently occupied. Forming a more just 
estimate of the power and dignity of their science, 
they are engaged in shadowing out sublime con- 
ceptions, and brilliant imaginations of things 
beyond the scope of ordinary observation — in 
descriptions of awful grandeur and luxuriant 
beauty — in deep inquiries concerning human ac- 
tions, character, and passions — in exhibiting the 
emotions of the heart — in calling forth the ge- 
nerous sympathies of our nature, and removing 
us from the influence of every-day impressions, 
by tales of tragic woe, and pathos, and romance. 

M 



242 

In this last is contained one of the greatest pur-' 
poses of poetry. We require to be relieved from 
the business and the perplexities of life — from the 
dulness of ordinary occupation, or the fatigue of 
laborious study — and from the tendency which 
all these have to blunt the finer feelings of the 
soul, and to render it insensible to the most de- 
lightful intellectual pleasures. This relief we 
find in compositions that carry the mind out of 
the sphere of these depressing agents, and which 
teach us purer and more elevated feelings, while 
they delight us by situations of novel interest, 
of romantic character, of moral, or of natural 
beauty. It is in vain that we shall seek for these 
qualifications in works where the subject is allied 
to the very impressions we would escape from — > 
where the sentiments and the fiction lose their 
interest from their entire artificialness, and where 
the language in which they are conveyed is mere 
measured prose, destitute of the fire and anima- 
tion which can alone engage and satisfy the mind. 
To the excellent qualities already mentioned, the 
modern poets have added a strength and dignity 
of verse, and a commanding force of expression, 
corresponding with the character of the design, 
and imparting a glowing vivacity to their concep- 
tions. Instead of verses " dragging their slow 



243 

length along" beneath the dead weight of com- 
mon-place sentiments and spiritless phrases, we 
have lines that breathe the fire of the thought 
within, heightening the effect of the ideas by their 
splendour, and, dazzling as burnished gold, re- 
flecting the light of the sun. To illustrate this, 
compare the narratives of Dry den and Lord 
Byron — the lagging carelessness and prosing 
dulness of the former, with the bounding spirit, 
the continuing force, and the expressive terseness 
of the latter. The one appears to be performing 
a disgusting task, the other to be enjoying a high 
and congenial pleasure. There are hundreds of 
lines in Dryden that would disgrace a school- 
boy ; and a great portion of the verse of his age 
is characterised by the same inattention and 
weakness, as if the primary object had been the 
acquisition of a rhyme at the end, for the sake 
of which, the strength and beauty of diction were 
neglected. We are now also no longer fatigued 
by the monotonous recurrence of hexameters on 
all occasions, whether grave or gay, important 
or otherwise ; the modern poets having generally 
adapted their metre to the subject, and intro- 
duced a most agreeable and effective variety of 
verse. The greatest metrical change formerly 
was in the composition of the ode, which often, 



244 

however, dragging through its forms of epode^ 
strophe, and antistrophe, was still artificial and 
restrained. It was not, what it assumed to be, 
an aspiration of powerful feeling that spurned the 
rules and modes of art; it was a formal mockery, 
and only another variety of compliance with a 
degraded taste. The productions of that time 
most conspicuous for freedom and nature are the 
odes of Gray and Collins, who, rejecting the 
slavish customs that deprived the ode of its pro- 
per rank and elegance, gave it a simplicity — a 
natural character and effect, which exhibited its 
inherent powers and value. 

There is an important difference in the habits 
of the poets of the two periods, which unquestion- 
ably produces a great effect on their writings. 
Those of the former were chiefly resident in the 
capital — familiar with each other, and moving in 
the circle of the court. Dryden, Addison, Pope, 
Swift, Gay, Prior, and many others, were inti- 
mately connected with the nobility and persons 
in high official situations, which circumstance 
had a necessary tendency to confine their sub- 
jects to such as were most interesting to the 
fashionable world, and best harmonized with its 
pursuits, — as the topics of the day — wit — satire, 
and illustrations of society. Among other con- 



245 

sequences resulting from this we may trace the 
prevalence of satire, the more exalted kind of 
which has now nearly disappeared, but for which 
the habits and style of the past age were pecu- 
liarly adapted, — and of this ample proofs may be 
found in the writings of Pope, Swift, Dryden, 
and Young. Another evidence of the character 
of the period is the superiority of its comedy over 
its tragedy. Almost all the tragedies were fai- 
lures. Tedious declamation and empty bombast 
supplied the place of natural force and dramatic 
effect. Genuine pathos and the fire of passion 
seemed to be unknown, and were wretchedly 
represented by affectation and rant. On the 
other hand, comedy was generally cultivated, 
understood, and admired. Its subject was within 
the range of the prevailing taste — its business 
was to transfer the manners of society to the 
stage, to sanction by imitation, or condemn by 
ridicule. To achieve this presented no difficulty, 
and the success was proportionate to the facility. 
The models of characters were continually before 
the writers — they lived among them — partook of 
their gaieties, and too often mingled in while they 
satirized their vices. Nothing was wanting but 
refinement : the licentiousness of Charles's reign 
still adhered to the stage, and disfigured its pro- 



246 

ductions; but when Sheridan afterwards com- 
bined the gaiety, vivacity, and polished ease, but 
excluded the profligacy of the style, he arrived 
at the perfection of English comedy. In the 
present day, from the operation of causes already 
mentioned, the balance is reversed — the taste for 
comedy is on the decline; and although the 
triumph of tragedy is rather a subject of antici- 
pation than actual attainment, yet the spirit and 
disposition of the times are strongly in favour of 
its improvement and success. These social 
habits have also been instrumental in handing 
down to us the names of many who are suffered 
to degrade our collections of poetry, but who 
never would have maintained their places by the 
side of Milton, Thomson, and Pope, if they had 
not been familiar with men whose friendship 
gave a currency to their writings, and conferred 
upon them a distinction which otherwise they 
would never have acquired. The poets of our 
own time, generally speaking, are engaged in 
pursuits of a directly opposite nature. Some are 
dwelling in beautiful retreats, far from the bustle 
and influence of courts and cities, companioned 
only by their own imaginations and the scenery 
which inspires them — others are travelling in 
foreign lands, enriching their minds with the re- 



247 

collections of classic days, or with the luxuriance 
of Oriental imagery, while very few are either 
courtiers, or inclosed in the vortex of fashionable 
society. Thus their compositions chiefly indicate 
habits of retirement and contemplation, relating 
to the varieties of nature, or to situations of dra- 
matic interest, accompanied by the charms of 
description, and by imagination combining the 
attractions of romantic sentiments and romantic 
scenery. 

In narrative poetry an entire change has taken 
place ; and the epic, which has been pronounced 
by critics to be the noblest species of verse, has 
fallen into disuse, and been succeeded by what 
is usually termed romantic poetry, from its cha- 
racter of unrestrained fiction. The main differ- 
ence between the two is, that the former is a 
narrative of some great action, detailed with art 
and regularity to illustrate some important moral 
truth, constructed and governed by generally 
accepted rules — involving a variety of circum- 
stances, characters, and passions— and from its 
nature and dignity, of considerable length and 
complexity, — while the romantic poem, less 
aspiring in its object, is more unrestrained in its 
execution, and possesses the advantage of call- 
ing in to its aid all the powers that poetry enjoys. 



248 

The imagination of the poet is free to digress 
and diversify at pleasure — to enliven by changes 
of metre, and to interest by various traits of pa- 
thos, sentiment, and fancy, which charm the 
reader, and arouse his feelings in a manner that 
the severe grandeur of the epic entirely forbids. 
The translations of the sublime poems of Homer 
and Virgil, by Pope and Dryden, materially con- 
tributed to inspire a taste for epic poetry; but 
the critical laws by which it is controlled, not 
only render it difficult of execution, whereby 
mechanical contrivance comes to be substituted 
for genius, but also artificial in its character, 
giving it a cold elevation of action and senti- 
ment, too far removed from the feelings of man, 
and exciting no continuing interest in the mind. 
It was not to be expected that a style of com- 
position so opposed to the regenerated temper of 
the times should maintain its reputation, and in 
the success of romantic poetry that temper is 
most clearly indicated. Stories of ancient times, 
and deeds of chivalry — all the shades of passion, 
from the gentlest to the most intense — tales of 
love, of sorrow, and of awe — powerful delinea- 
tions of individual character, and minute details 
of auxiliary circumstances, form the subjects and 
the characteristics of modern narrative poetry. 



249 

By these have Byron, Scott, Moore, and Camp- 
bell acquired a celebrity to which they were 
justly entitled; not only for what is excellent in 
their several performances, but as masters of a 
style that has given birth to a new and bright 
era in British literature — communicated a fresh 
impulse and enlarged sphere to genius, and re- 
fined the taste and the sentiments of the people. 
Every pursuit will have its extreme : in the pre- 
ceding age, verse sunk into mere art and affecta- 
tion; in the present, it has often plunged into 
extravagance ; but in an enlightened period, this 
error cannot be of long duration, and the good 
taste of the public has already done much to- 
wards its correction. Among other consquences 
resulting from the popularity of romantic poetry, 
the introduction of the fanciful style in architec- 
ture and landscape — gardening is not the least 
obvious. Castles and abbies — Gothic towers 
and Eastern minarets rise around us — an unpro- 
mising landscape is forced into the picturesque — 
and rocks, glens, and cataracts appear as so 
many records of the spirit that seeks to identify 
itself with the associations of wild sublimity, 
mountain liberty, and the primitive simplicity of 
nature. Immediately connected with this class 
of poetry, are those works of fiction usually 

M 5 



250 

designated as novels and romances. In the 
former branch, the change has kept pace with 
the improving character of the age, and although 
it may have been degraded by the multiplicity of 
pretenders who have deluged the world with 
baneful trash, and contemptible absurdities that 
deserve no rank in literature, yet those which 
have emanated from writers of acknowledged 
talent have exhibited as many marks of genius 
and refined taste, as any other species of com- 
position. Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett, 
were all men of undoubted ability, and faithful 
copyists of human nature, but their copies were 
made after bad originals ; vice was often depicted 
with too much vivacity, and virtue with fatiguing 
dulness. Their wit and humour were admirable 
in their way, but they were in the corrupt taste 
of the time ; and that has now given place to 
higher and less equivocal qualities. Our con- 
temporary novelists, taking a wider scope, have 
called in to their assistance, history, poetry, and 
imagination ; they have illustrated detached and 
obscure portions of history ; they have combined 
the charms of animated description with the de- 
velopment of plot and character ; they have deli- 
neated national manners and local scenery, and by 
all these they have better adapted the illusions of 



251 

fiction for the purpose of conveying useful truths 
and moral instruction. The peculiar features of 
the historic novel and the romance, are the cre- 
ation of our own age ; and the most skilfully con- 
ducted of these have not only given a variety 
and interest to the stores of fiction, but have 
elicited much valuable information, and by their 
fascinating form, have left a more distinct im- 
pression of facts and sentiments on the mind than 
would have been obtained from works of a less 
attractive character. The avidity for mere horror 
was a temporary extravagance, that has now 
greatly subsided, and of which there is little 
danger of revival. This species of writing also 
deserves our favourable notice, as having elicited 
and encouraged female talent to a very consider- 
able extent, by which, not only has the world 
been benefited and delighted with the Works of 
an Edgeworth, a Burney, a Radcliffe, a Hamil- 
ton, and a Porter, but these writers, and many 
more of various degrees of excellence, have 
gained a reputation and support, which in other 
branches of literature they could not have ex- 
pected to find. 

While comparing the lighter works of the two 
eras, a striking circumstance appears respecting 
the poetry and fiction generally of the former, 



252 

viz. that in all effusions relating to the passions — 
to love, sympathy, and pathos — wherever real 
and unsophisticated feeling is to be expressed — 
there is a palpable deficiency supplied only by 
affectation, strained metaphors, and phrases in- 
animate and artificial. The poetry of love was 
represented by the affected sighings of Delias 
and Strephons, calculated only to degrade a sub- 
ject, favoured by the genius of all ages, and 
which possesses within itself the greatest meta- 
physical power over the imagination, but which 
French apathy and heartless frivolity had suc- 
ceeded in bringing into contempt and ridicule. 
It is almost impossible that the authors of the 
amatory nonsense so abundant in the last century 
could have cherished any idea of genuine emo- 
tions and natural pathos, or at all understood the 
philosophy of the human heart — and there are 
but few compositions that claim exemption from 
the censure. Shaw's Monody on the Death of 
his Wife is one of the most celebrated of these ; 
and knowing that his actual feelings at the time 
were most acute, we are enabled to appreciate 
and to distinguish his language from that of the 
polished mockeries of the age. The silly trifling 
of the Delia Cruscan school may be considered 
as the expiring struggle of the race, since which 



253 

the unfettered genius and unaffected fervour of a 
Moore, a Byron, and a Scott, have restored the 
gentler passions to their proper rank, and united 
intensity of thought and warmth of feeling, with 
strength, beauty, and dignity of expression. 

Leaving now the consideration of works of 
genius and imagination, let us advert to the pro- 
gress of the other classes of literature, which, as 
connected with learning, reason, and method, are 
governed by different principles, and are less de- 
pendant on common causes than compositions of 
the order we have as yet discussed. That they 
also have shared in the revolutions of the time, 
and received the stamp of liberal opinions, with 
an emancipation from prejudices of style and 
reasoning, is unquestionable ; but generally the 
effects have been more variable, and the im- 
provement more equivocal. 

The most obvious distinction between the 
writings of the old and new school is, the altered 
mode of reasoning adopted in the latter, and 
visible alike in works of history, philosophy, 
morals, and criticism. 

In the former period, the principles and spirit 
of the Aristotelian logic were mostly adhered to 
by writers on these subjects — the characteristic 
effects of which are, closeness of reasoning, an 



254 

unwearied research into the truth of every part 
of a proposition, and a methodical arrangement 
of ideas and terms, usually divested of extrane- 
ous ornament, but clear, convincing, and precise. 
This will be best illustrated by reference to 
Locke and Tillotson, where the reader will find 
every subject of inquiry arranged with logical 
precision, examined with the most searching 
minuteness, and its deductions proved with such 
earnestness and care, that the mind becomes, at 
length, saturated with proofs, and fatigued by the 
labour of the argument. The change that sub- 
sequently took place in men's minds, and the 
constitution of society, weakened this attachment 
to the method of the schools; and the meta- 
physical writers having found that it actually cir- 
cumscribed their inquiries — that the phenomena 
of the human mind could not be organized by 
arbitrary rule and system, it fell into disrepute, 
and gave place to a freer and more attractive 
mode of argument — more adapted for illustration 
and persuasion, and presenting greater facilities 
both to the writer and the reader. Nevertheless, 
in discarding the fetters and jargon of the Aristo- 
telian logic, we have sacrificed much of its pre- 
cision ; for at the same time was introduced a 
love of ornament — a disposition to embellish — to 



255 

please — to surprise, and to summon imagination to 
the support of reasoning, from the abuse of which 
it is very difficult to guard. This has been im- 
properly indulged in by our modern philosophers 
and critics, who prefer brilliancy, antithesis, and 
point, to patient deduction, and satisfactory con- 
clusions derived from convincing argument. They 
are anxious to astonish rather than to convince — 
to confound where they cannot prove, and to 
dazzle where they cannot satisfy the understand- 
ing. Thus we may designate their writings as 
bold and free, but not accurate — ingenious, but 
not solid — brilliant, but not profound. This style 
is convenient for the purposes of sophistry, espe- 
cially that which is intended to operate generally ; 
and when we reflect what a mass of moral and 
political error was poured out during the French 
revolution, and how much was required to advo- 
cate its cause, it will not appear surprising that 
this kind of composition should have become 
popular, and that from its pleasing character, it 
should have superseded what was dry and se- 
vere, though substantial and just. 

For historical composition, the last age was 
eminently distinguished, whether we refer to the 
style, the research, or the magnitude of the sub- 
ject involved; of which the names of Hume, 



256 

Gibbon, Robertson, and Henry, are sufficient 
testimonials, besides whom, many more might be 
adduced as examples of patient investigation and 
perspicuous detail. That there are fewer works of 
this kind now published, is rather the consequence 
of preceding efforts, than of neglect of study or 
deterioration of talent ; but in these, it may be 
observed that there is less attention paid to style 
than formerly, the historian being more interested 
in arranging facts and authorities than in polish- 
ing his language. Much of this arises also from 
a pernicious eagerness to publish, from which 
cause, materials are put together in a loose and 
hasty manner, and works are published in a few 
months, that in former times required the labour 
of years. There is yet a vast mine of Oriental 
history unexplored by the learned of our country. 
In this pursuit the French have hitherto kept the 
advantage; but there are noble exceptions and 
examples presented by Sir William Jones, and 
by Sir John Malcolm in his admirable History of 
Persia, which for learning, comprehensiveness, 
and elegance, merits the warmest praise. 

One species of writing extremely successful 
in the last century, from the talents of those who 
practised it — the periodical moral essay — is now 
lost to us. There are, perhaps, no compositions 



257 

of that period more generally useful, or more un« 
exceptionable in point of taste and style, than 
these Essays; distinguishing particularly, the 
Spectator, Tatler, Guardian, Rambler, and Citi- 
zen of the World. To have enjoyed regularly 
the free thoughts and interesting speculations of 
an Addison, a Johnson, a Steele, and a Gold- 
smith, was a valuable privilege, and it is much 
to be regretted that their places are not now sup- 
plied. This is, in a great degree, owing to the 
circumstances of the times, which present no en- 
couragement for a man of literary eminence to 
apply his talents in this direction. Another rea- 
son is, that as an object of public interest, the 
science of morals has yielded to metaphysics. 
The popularity of the former was destroyed by 
the crowd of pretenders who, affecting to imitate 
the excellent writings just mentioned, fatigued 
their readers, and exhausted their partiality for 
the subject. At the same time, the philosophy 
of the human mind was liberating itself from the 
mystic obscurities and jargon of the schools, and 
came recommended to our notice by the elegant 
perspicuity of Reid, Stewart, and Home. The 
prevalence of this study has undoubtedly given 
a tone and character to the literature of the age, 
the metaphysical tendency of which is rather too 



25S 

great and obvious. Metaphysics should be in 
the substance, not upon the surface; and they 
are frequently too visible in our poetry, our criti- 
cism, and our abstract disquisitions. 

From these remarks we are led to consider the 
general effects of periodical literature, which so 
powerfully operates upon the character and know- 
ledge of the present time. It is more than pro- 
bable, that to this may be traced many of the 
peculiarities of our literary tastes and pursuits. 
That the multiplicity of periodical journals occa- 
sions certain great advantages and evils, is un- 
questionable. To the community at large they 
are the means of diffusing information on all 
subjects, and on this point their utility is un- 
equivocal. The liberty of the press, and the 
increasing desire of knowledge, gave them a 
circulation that carries literature into every cor- 
ner of the empire, and is constantly tending to 
equalise the intellectual distinctions of the peo- 
ple. They are also nursaries for unpatronised 
genius, and a medium for exchanging the indi- 
vidual acquirements of the learned. .But on the 
other hand, they often paralyze the efforts of an 
author, by anticipating and injuring his subject. 
Thus a man is deterred from prosecuting a work 
of considerable length and labour, because, as 



259 

in some instances, the information is condensed 
in a Cyclopaedia; or, as in others, because it 
has already been discussed in a variety of jour- 
nals, with a rapidity that renders his single exer- 
tions useless and vain. A writer must be very 
certain, either that his own reputation or the 
nature of the subject he chooses will place him 
beyond the danger of anticipation, before he will 
venture upon a work of magnitude ; and from this 
arises that avidity of publication, with its atten- 
dant evils, which is so injurious to real excellence. 
Political writing is now chiefly confined to the 
journals, whence the essays are necessarily crude 
and hasty from want of time and reflection. Few 
men possess the extraordinary powers and as- 
siduity of Junius, and still fewer would devote 
their talents where they are sure of being ill- 
requited. The same observation will apply to 
literary journals, where men of eminence are 
reluctant to appear, because they may be de- 
graded by the contiguity of some senseless trash, 
and because they are conscious that their labours 
are depreciated by their situation. Still it will be 
obvious, that the ill-effects of periodical literature 
are of little importance compared with the gene- 
rally diffused good that it produces, as also that 
the evil influence operates only upon works of 



260 

reflection and research. Those of imagination 
are out of its sphere ; and in briefly recapitulating 
the positions advanced on the character of the 
age, we may pronounce, without fear of contra- 
diction, that it is one in which genius and imagi- 
nation are most predominant, most popular, and 
most triumphant, whether as regards their ex- 
ternal success, or their internal purity. The 
corrupt taste that preferred words to ideas, re- 
finement to sublimity, and art to nature, is no 
more. Of compositions of reasoning and study, 
our ancestors may have grasped the subjects, 
and hewn out the foundations of our knowledge — 
their works may have been more laborious, their 
reasoning more precise, — but it was reserved for 
our time to make that knowledge of general uti- 
lity, and to dispense it freed from error, preju- 
dice, and obscurity. They may have collected 
the ingots, but it is we who have broken them into 
pieces, and with them enriched the world. 

London, December 14, 18 J 8. 



THE END. 



T. Miller, Printer, Noble Street, g **4 £•" 

Cheapside, London. 



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Treatment Date: May 2009 

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A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
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